


Angel Overboard!

by WincestielFTTFWin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adoptive Parent Dean Winchester, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Overboard Fusion, Amnesiac Castiel (Supernatural), Anxiety, Inspired by the movie Overboard, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Castiel, POV Dean Winchester, Panic Attacks, Slow Burn, Teen Charlie Bradbury, but you don't need to have seen the movie for this to make sense, morally ambiguous decisions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2019-06-05 10:35:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15168848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WincestielFTTFWin/pseuds/WincestielFTTFWin
Summary: When Dean Winchester is hired to do a job on Castiel Milton's yacht, he's really just looking for a decent paycheck, not whatever weird sexual tension he feels with the guy who--it turns out--is married (happily or not) to a woman. When Castiel claims he's an unsatisfied customer and refuses to pay Dean for his work before shoving him off the damn yacht, Dean is pissed to say the least.So when Castiel's face shows up on the local news as an unidentified amnesiac, Dean gets an idea of how to Cas could make up a little of his debt. All it takes is getting his adopted daughters to play along and convincing Castiel he's Dean's husband, who really, really likes doing chores.Of course, everything was going smoothly with that plan until Dean's *feelings* had to get involved![Inspired by the movie Overboard (1987)]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all!
> 
> I know I should be updating my other two WIPs, but this idea hit me the other week and wouldn't leave me alone. I've been writing enough angst lately, I wanted something a little lighter in my life. I'm sure this'll get angsty at some point, but for now: Overboard! But gay!

Dean closed the door to his bedroom as he stepped out into the kitchen, shrugging a flannel shirt onto his shoulders as he moved.

Charlie, the youngest of Dean’s adopted brood, sat at the kitchen table, her bright red hair still unbrushed, the boxes stacked around her ignored as she stared at her laptop screen, coffee in a _Star Trek_ mug at her elbow.

“You’re up early,” Dean said, kissing the top of her head as he moved past her to pour his own coffee in a to-go mug, scanning the counter for the toaster to fix a quick breakfast before he realized they hadn’t unpacked it yet. He’d have to grab himself something on the way to his new job. “It’s not next week already, is it?”

“No, Dean,” Charlie said, rolling her eyes with a fond smirk. “It’s still today, and it’s still summer. I just wanted to get an early start to the day. Maybe poke around town a bit and see if there’s anywhere willing to hire a fourteen-year-old with an empty bank account and a plucky attitude.”

Charlie took a sip of coffee, looking up at Dean.

“What about you? You’re dressed and making moves pretty early yourself,” she said.

Dean grinned back at her.

“Sammy hooked me up with a job,” he said. “Some guy called his firm apparently shocked that no one in a building full of architects makes house calls. Sam gave him my contact information, so now I have to head down to the docks.”

“The docks?” Charlie echoed. “What are you doing—putting on an addition to a boat?”

“No, smartass. Guy wants some work down in one of the _rooms_. Apparently, he owns a yacht.”

Charlie whistled.

“If he’s cute I say you seduce him and get us all a rich Daddy Warbucks type.”

Dean froze halfway through screwing the lid on his travel mug. So far, Sam had been the only one to hint to Dean that it might be time to start moving on from Aaron. And even then, he only made hints, with that deeply-lined forehead and “concerned brother” expression of his. Dean knew Charlie was only joking. She’d loved Aron too, and after all, it had only been a year—

“Shit,” Charlie muttered. “I’m sorry, Dean. I didn’t mean anything by it, really. It’s early. I wasn’t thinking!”

Dean didn’t even bother being hypocritical enough to tell her to watch her language. He just turned around, mug in hand and a forced smile on his face.

“Yeah, I know, kiddo,” Dean said, waving her off. “And who knows, maybe I could do a little fooling around at least—if his yacht’s big enough to tempt me.”

“Eww, Dean, gross!” Charlie spluttered.

Dean’s smile eased into something more relaxed, and he started out of the room and into the living room, eyes zeroing in on the box of tools by the front door.

“You’ll tell Claire and Krissy where I’m at?” he called over his shoulder.

“Sure, sure,” Charlie agreed, eyes focused on her screen again, so Dean was positive she was tuning him out.

“Hey,” he said, voice sharp enough to get her to blink and look up. “I know we’re supposed to be doing this moving in thing together, and I know it sucks I won’t be around today, but it would be great if I could get home and see at least a few more boxes unpacked, okay?”

“Yeah, of course,” Charlie agreed, eyes getting a little too serious.

“Yeah, don’t slave away all day,” Dean said, grabbing his toolbox and heading outside.

The Impala was parked in the driveway, before a lawn that was more dirt than grass at this point and needed to be reseeded, and a tree that was dead and Dean needed to take down before someone got hurt. Both were on his list of things to do, along with unpack and move in enough that the space he and the girls were living in resembled a house more than the inside of a storage unit. But really, given the expense of buying this place and not having made much on the old house with all the mortgages (medical bills were expensive), making a few bucks doing work on some guy’s yacht really did skyrocket to the top of the list.

Dean drove down the tree-lined back road for a few minutes before turning into the town of Beaufort, NC. Not that it was a bustling metropolis by any stretch of the imagination, but it was still early enough the roads were pretty deserted. He picked up a breakfast sandwich at McDonalds and ate it while he drove. It didn’t take him long to navigate past the main square of downtown with its little storefronts and wind up at the docks. He drove around until he found parking for the “Yacht Basin,” grumbling at the thought of what kind of rich assholes would put up there before grabbing his toolbox and making his way toward the line of much more impressive ships separated from the sort of boats the average upper-middle class residents of Beaufort might take out on the weekend.

Dean made his way to the docks, looking up and down the line of ships before he spotted a guy nearby tying off a rope with practiced ease.

“Hey, uh, I’m looking for the _Paradise Found_?” he asked the man.

The guy gestured further on, to a few more docks away. Dean nodded his thanks and kept moving.

When he actually found the _Paradise Found_ , he was tempted to just keep on walking. It was easily the biggest ship in sight. And while Dean believed a lot of the other vessels moored there would count as yachts, this thing really was a _yacht_ with all that implied. Dean could imagine Tony Curtis romancing Marilyn Munroe on this thing. Only this ship was even bigger than the one he remembered from that movie. He stood gaping at it, reading the name of the yacht on the piece of paper scrawled in his hand over and over again.

He still hadn’t made up his mind how to progress from here (although some part of his brain was definitely hearing slot machine sound effects. Whoever owned this monstrosity could definitely afford however much of Dean’s services they wanted. Hell, at this point he might figure out _how_ to build them an addition if they wanted one) when a figure appeared on board, emerging onto a deck ringed by padded furniture.

“Are you the contractor?” a deep voice asked.

And damn Charlie for putting weird rich-guy fantasies in his head, because the sound of that voice shot straight to Dean’s dick. It might have only been a year since Aaron, but that meant it had been A Year Since Aaron.

“Uh, yeah, that’s right,” Dean answered, his own voice getting a little husky too before he cleared his throat. “The name’s Dean Winchester. You Mr. Milton?”

“That’s right,” the guy said. “If you’ll just come this way.”

With that he disappeared through a doorway. Dean boarded the yacht a little awkwardly (he’d lived in landlocked states his whole life before this) and crossed the deck to slip through the same door Milton had taken. He drew up short the moment he stepped inside, because Milton hadn’t moved much past the threshold, leading Dean to almost step _into_ him.

And if Dean thought his voice sounded hot, that had in no way prepared him for the man himself. Rich guy Milton was hot. He was built (the guy had to spend some time working out. From his build, Dean was willing to bet runner. Sam was into all that running crap, so Dean knew the look. He just didn’t usually _look_ quite this closely). He had a mop of dark hair that was disheveled, going every which-way on his head. And he was staring at Dean with a pair of ridiculously bright blue eyes.

Staring and not blinking. And apparently not bothered by the fact that there was maybe a foot of space between the two of them. Oh.

Dean’s lips tugged into a smirk. Maybe it was time to start thinking about moving on, because already his mind was unspooling whole reels of dirty things he’d like to do to this guy in bed. And from the intensity of the way this guy was staring back at him, Dean got the impression he’d be amenable.

“How can I be of service to you, Mr. Milton?” Dean asked, putting on his cheekiest grin.

And then, wonder of wonders, Milton actually fucking _blushed_. His cheeks and the tips of his ears turned all pink, and he actually broke eye contact for a full second to cough into his hand.

“Castiel,” he said.

“Come again?” Dean asked, the non sequitur derailing any train of thought he may have been building up to.

“That’s my name,” Milton said, meeting Dean’s eyes with his former confidence again. “Castiel Milton.”

“Castiel, huh?” Dean asked, noticing that Castiel still hadn’t moved his body back an inch to put any more space between them. “That’s a bit of a mouthful.”

“It’s an angelic name,” he said. “Castiel, the angel of Thursdays. I was born on a Thursday.”

Dean chuckled, a thought hitting him.

“What’s so funny?” Castiel asked, sounding a little offended, but still not stepping away.

“I was just thinking, ‘did it hurt?’” Dean answered, expecting maybe an eye-roll or an “If I had a dollar for every time I heard that,” but instead, Castiel just squinted at him and tilted his head to one side, confusion etched in every feature.

“Did what hurt?” he asked.

For fuck’s sake! Dean couldn’t believe this guy. He’d walked right into it. It was too good.

“Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?” Dean asked.

“When I fell from—?” Castiel echoed, then, suddenly, he stiffened.

His eyes scanned Dean’s body in a way that very much did not read as checking him out. Then, slowly, intentionally, he took a big step back.

“If you’ll follow me please, Dean, I’ll show you what I want done,” he said, turning and leading the way down a narrow hallway to a door on the right.

Dean followed, feeling a little guilty that he’d made the guy uncomfortable. Maybe he’d come on too strong. He definitely hadn’t been very professional, a mistake he couldn’t afford to repeat if he wanted to keep getting work in a new town.

He followed Castiel into the room, looking around to see a big wooden desk below a window (or, well, were they portholes if they were on a yacht? Dean needed to do more research if he kept taking jobs like this), an old-fashioned globe in one corner, and a large bookshelf along the far wall. The shelves were all full, though, overflowing, in fact, and books still cluttered the surface of the desk, the seat of an extra chair near the globe, and several corners of the room.

“As you can see, my shelf space is inadequate,” Castiel said, waving a long-fingered hand at the offending, double-parked bookshelf.

“Yeah, or your reading tastes are a little overzealous,” Dean quipped before he could stop himself.

All Castiel did was smile, though, just a crinkle at the eyes that didn’t involve his lips at all but still told Dean he was amused.

“Whatever the case,” Castiel said. “I want more shelves. I don’t know exactly where they’d manage to fit in the room, but this can’t go on. I can’t keep stacking books in corners like a graduate student. We’re docked here for a while because we need some engine repairs, and it seemed like a good time to take a job like this on. But I don’t know how much shelf space you’re reasonably be able to add in a room whose dimensions are already rather finite.”

“Don’t worry about it, Cas,” Dean said, already surveying the room, the number of homeless books, and figuring in the probability of Castiel only adding to the collection over time. “I think we can work something out.”

“Pardon?” Castiel said.

“Yeah,” Dean said, scanning the free wall space by the existing shelf and wondering how to not make the room seem too overwhelmed by the books. It might be a big yacht but it still wasn’t a house. The room wasn’t that big. “Yeah, I’ve got a few ideas.”

“No,” Castiel said. “I meant—you called me ‘Cas.’”

“Oh,” Dean said, turning back to him. Even when he wasn’t trying to be rude, he still somehow managed to be. “My bad. It was just—like I said, Castiel is a mouthful.”

And then he blushed, realizing while maybe he’d meant the double entendre the first time he’d said it, it felt massively inappropriate now.

“That’s all right,” Castiel said, speaking slowly. “I think—I think I like it. Cas. No one’s ever called me that before.”

“No kidding, really?” Dean asked. “Everyone always sticks to ‘Castiel,’ huh?”

“Mostly,” Castiel acknowledged, before his expression shifted to something verging on disgust. “Sometimes, it’s been shortened to ‘Cassie,’ but I particularly detest that.”

“And who could blame you?” Dean answered honestly enough. “Look, Cas, like I said, I’ve got some ideas, but I’m going to need some supplies. I’ll take a few measurements, pick up some lumber, and then could get started on this by lunch. That work okay for your schedule?”

Castiel nodded.

“Yes, Dean. That should be satisfactory. I’ll leave you to your work.”

He left and Dean turned back into the room, reaching for his tape measure.

~ SPN ~

Dean drove to the lumberyard, meeting with Benny, a contact Sam had hooked him up with to get some discount pine boards for his shelving unit idea. Castiel might be rich enough to pay full price for lumber, but that didn’t mean Dean had to stiff him on the deal. Plus, if he could shave a little off the cost of materials, maybe Dean would feel free to charge a little more for labor. Like he said, Cas could afford it.

When he got back to the yacht, though, carrying his first load of supplies on board, he was stopped by a woman in a bikini painting her nails on the deck.

“What are you, and what are you doing here?” she asked, peering up at Dean from behind a pair of sunglasses that dwarfed her face.

“Uh, I’m the contractor?” Dean said. “Mr. Milton hired me to put in some shelves.”

The woman took a deep breath, staring at Dean, before she turned back toward the doorway.

“Castiel!” she shouted, shrill voice carrying. Then she turned back to Dean, pushing up her sunglasses to reveal a pair of cold, cutting eyes. “I’m Hael Milton. I wasn’t told about a contractor being hired.”

Hael Milton. That made sense, Dean guessed. She had the same dark hair and light eyes Castiel had. Though where he came across as awkward and a bit stiff, Dean got the sense this woman was dangerous.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Dean said. “You Mr. Milton’s sister?”

“Sister?” Hael echoed archly. “I’m his _wife_.”

Uh-oh. That definitely made Castiel’s rigidness around him make more sense. Dean didn’t think he’d been misreading the initial signs. Castiel was definitely attracted to him. But he was married. To a woman. Whether he was bi, pan, or in the closet, it didn’t matter, not really. He was off-limits. Dean wouldn’t make the same mistake again in trying to flirt with him.

Of course, that mental promise was the moment Castiel appeared, looking even more attractive than Dean remembered him being before in a crisp dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the top three buttons undone.

“Hael,” Castiel said, nodding at his wife, completely ignoring Dean.

“Castiel, this—” she paused, eyes raking up and down Dean’s frame before turning back to Castiel. “Man—tells me you hired him to ‘put in some shelves.’ Is that correct?”

Castiel’s eyes flicked over to Dean briefly before turning his attention back to Hael.

“That’s correct,” he said. “Captain Singer tells me we’ll be stuck here several days while the engine is being repaired. It seemed the perfect time to take on a job like this.”

The wording was close enough to what Castiel had told Dean about the project, Dean got the sense this was an answer—or a justification—he’d intentionally thought up and rehearsed for just such a question. The fact that Castiel felt the need to have an answer prepared made him grit his teeth a little, shifting the burden he carried in his arms that was getting heavier while the couple discussed him like he wasn’t standing right there.

“I see,” Hael said. “And you didn’t think this was a decision I needed to be consulted on? That you could just have strange men coming off and on the _Paradise_ at all hours and I didn’t deserve to have a say? Or at least get a warning. ‘By the way, dear, if you see a man who looks like he just left a lumberjack convention sneaking onto the ship, he’s not actually here to rob us, he’s just a man I hired to put in some shelves!’”

“Hael,” Castiel said, but he said it wearily, like he didn’t actually expect to be allowed to say anything else. Which was just as well, because he didn’t get the chance to, as Hael rolled on.

“No, you felt the need to go behind my back for some reason, and now this _man_ is here, as he’s obviously already been here, so even if we fired him now, we’d have to pay him for starting a job he’s never finished and I look like the shrew who wouldn’t let you have nice things, is that it?”

Hael paused, watching Castiel now. Clearly it was his turn to talk.

“I wasn’t thinking,” Castiel said, and while he didn’t look at the ground or at Dean, he wasn’t looking at Hael either, not really. “It didn’t occur to me that you’d be interested in a side-project of mine. I didn’t believe it would cause much of a disturbance. But of course, if you’d prefer to avoid the disruption, I can dismiss the contractor.”

“Okay, great,” Dean said, the flippant way Cas had offered to “dismiss” him getting under his skin more than the rest of the fight and Hael’s sharp words had done. “Can I just get a word in edgewise here? I was promised a job, for which I woke up at the ass-crack of dawn to drive out here. I’ve already picked up the lumber and fixtures I need for the job. If you want to fire me before I even get the chance to do more than take some measurements, that’s fine, but I’m definitely charging a full day’s worth of labor, plus materials.”

Hael looked at him like she were eyeing something under glass. Something dead and pinned to a board.

“Well, as you are here, I suppose you may as well finish the job my husband hired you for. Castiel?”

“Yes,” Castiel agreed, looking in Dean’s direction, no remorse or gentleness in his eyes. “You may as well finish the shelves.”

“Gee, thanks,” Dean said, telling himself to reign in his anger as he walked heavily (not stomped) back to Castiel’s study.

He still had a job. He was still getting paid. All he had to do was put together some shelves, get his money for said shelves, and then he never had to interact with Castiel Milton again.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean got home from working on the damn shelves in not exactly a bad mood, but not really a particularly cheerful one either. After whatever the hell had happened with Hael on deck, the version of Castiel he’d first met—the guy who stood a little too close, smiled with his eyes, and yeah, was maybe a little awkward but seemed nice enough—was gone. The Mr. Milton left in his place was, to put it mildly, a dick. He walked around like he had a rod up his ass, practically sneering at Dean when he’d asked for a glass of water and informing him he’d better not track any dirt onto the yacht the next day when Dean was leaving for the night.

Dean had worked for assholes before, so it wasn’t like this was unfamiliar territory. It was just, well, Castiel hadn’t _seemed_ like an asshole at first. He really hadn’t. So then Dean had started thinking his 180 in behavior had to be linked to Hael, and before he knew it, he was stewing up all sorts of stories in which Hael was some dragon lady and Castiel was her poor, miserable and closeted spouse. But the truth was, Dean didn’t know their life. And hell, even if any of his bullshit ideas were true, it wasn’t Dean’s business, and it didn’t make him want to punch Castiel in the mouth any less when the guy came in to light incense in the study and stare at Dean like his body odor was permanently infecting the room.

So he did his damn job until it was time to come home for the day, see his girls, and maybe unpack the damn toaster.

But of course, because nothing could go easily for Dean Winchester, when he pulled into the driveway, an unfamiliar SUV was already parked there. Before Dean had a moment to wonder who the hell would show up to his place unannounced (because that certainly wasn’t Sam’s fucking hybrid parked there), a woman he’d never seen before stormed out of his house, face visibly red even from his vantage point in the driveway, making a bee-line for her vehicle.

She stopped when she saw the Impala parked beside her and turned to stare Dean down. Wrath was rolling off her in waves, but for all that, she didn’t scare him at all after facing down Hael Milton earlier. He climbed out of the car, take-out he’d picked up for dinner in hand, leaning against the side of the impala while the stranger approached him.

“You’re Mr. Winchester, I presume?” she asked, making it sound more like an accusation than a question.

“That’s me,” he said, going for the confident and easy swagger that tended to work with middle-aged women.

He didn’t seem to be having much luck with his charm today, though.

“I’m Mrs. Styne,” the woman said. “I’m the guidance counsellor at the high school.”

“Nice to meet you,” Dean said, but she didn’t acknowledge the attempt at pleasantry.  

“I came here to welcome your daughters to the school—it’s rare we get three new students from the same family all starting high school in the same year,” Mrs. Styne said. “I thought it was worth making an appearance and welcoming them in person. But when I arrived here, do you know what I found?”

“Can’t say that I do,” Dean said, still aiming for genial, though he could guess well enough why Mrs. Styne thought it was worth making a special trip out to meet the new students in this case, and it didn’t endear her to him. It wasn’t often they got three students from the same family all starting high school at the same time but with _three_ _different last names_. This Styne lady came around snooping and clearly didn’t like what she found. “I was working, you know.”

“One of your _daughters_ met me at the door with a knife in her hand and told me to ‘get my ass’ off the property!” Mrs. Styne said. “When I explained who I was and the older girl came downstairs and let me in, she _still_ refused to apologize. I wasn’t threatened with any more weaponry after that point, but all the same, your daughters are rude, Mr. Winchester. Rude and unapologetic. That sort of behavior won’t be tolerated at East Carteret. I suggest you get them in line before next Monday, or else disciplinary measures will follow.”

“I’m sure you won’t have any problems with the girls at school, Mrs. Styne,” Dean said, resisting the urge to unleash all his frustrations on this busybody, and only refraining because he knew it wouldn’t do the girls any good.

Mrs. Styne let out a breath.

“Where is the girls’ mother in all this, Mr. Winchester?” she asked. “Where is Mrs. Winchester?”

“Those are two separate questions, Mrs. Styne, but I’ll save you the work on rewording. None of the girls’ mothers are in the picture. And there hasn’t been a _Mrs. Winchester_ since my mother died, but if you’re curious to know about my late husband, well, he died a year ago too. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go put dinner on the table.”

Dean waved the fast food bags in his hand and walked past Mrs. Styne into the house. All things considered, he thought he’d handled himself pretty well. It wasn’t any of her business what happened to any of the girls’ families (or why Krissy would feel the need to answer the door with a knife in her hands), but she could gossip with the other concerned citizens of Beaufort about Dean and his queer ass all she liked.

Dean pushed his way into the living room, which was just as crowded with boxes as it had been when he’d left that morning. Claire and Krissy sat together on the sagging couch they’d picked up at goodwill, no sign of Charlie.

Figures. Of course the only person in the whole damn family who knew how to talk to human beings without pissing them off just wasn’t there when Mrs. Styne decided to drop by.

“Well, see you’re working on that whole first impressions thing,” Dean said, setting the bags of greasy burgers and fries on the scuffed-up coffee table before the girls. “If neither of you are going to win Miss Congeniality, you still get points for being memorable. It didn’t seem like Mrs. Styne has been greeted by too many teenage girls carrying knives in her time.”

He shot Krissy a look. She didn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed.

“I didn’t know who the hell she was. Who just shows up at people’s houses uninvited these days, anyway?”

“Jehovah’s witnesses,” Dean supplied. “Friendly neighbors of the new family down the block. And small-town high school guidance counselors, apparently.”

“That lady was _not_ being friendly,” Claire said. “Even after we let her inside, she didn’t lighten up. She kept probing. Saying shit about how me and Krissy didn’t look alike and asking if we came from a ‘nuclear family.’”

Dean scrubbed a hand down his face before he removed a box from the seat of a glider chair in front of the window so he could sit down.

“We talked about this, remember? We knew it was going to be hard on everyone, moving to a new town where people don’t know anything about our situation. What do we say?”

“People are curious bastards,” Krissy mumbled.

“That’s right!” Dean agreed. “There are a lot of Mrs. Stynes out there, you guys. You can’t scare them all away with switchblades and expect to be left in peace. The world doesn’t work like that.”

“I _know_ that,” Claire said. “But that doesn’t mean we should have to smile and nod and share our life stories with the Mrs. Stynes of the world either.”

“Yeah,” Dean said with a sigh. “You’re right. I know. I’m proud of you for not taking anyone’s shit. But Krissy? Knives don’t come out until someone actually poses a significant physical threat, okay?”

Krissy shuffled in her seat and wrapped her arms a little tighter around herself, but she nodded her agreement.

“Okay,” Dean said, satisfied his parental duties had been fulfilled for the evening. “Where’s Charlie?”

Claire shrugged.

“She left on her bike to scope out Beaufort after lunch. She has her phone with her, though.”

Dean nodded.

“Dig in, then. Save some burgers for Charlie, but get the fries while they’re hot.”

Krissy and Claire set on the bags of fast food like a pair of wolves. Dean reached for one of the unclaimed bags, getting into the fries first and keeping an eye out to make sure there were still a couple burgers left for Charlie. When the food was gone, Dean stood up.

“I’m gonna meet Sam at the Roadhouse for a drink,” he said. “He and Sarah are having us over for dinner this weekend, so don’t make any big plans for Saturday.”

Claire snorted but didn’t say anything.

“Have Charlie text me when she gets in so I know she’s ok. You two need anything while I’m out?”

“No,” Krissy said. “But shouldn’t you be here and—I don’t know, unpacking or something?”

Dean looked around the house. He should be. He really should be. But Sam had wanted to see how the first day of Dean’s work with the Miltons went, and quite frankly, after the day he’d had, all Dean wanted was a few drinks and a chance to unwind.

“Uh, tomorrow,” Dean said. “We’ll get into the boxes tomorrow.”

And if Dean saw the look Claire and Krissy exchanged, well, it was easy enough to pretend not to and grab his leather jacket before heading out to the bar.

~ SPN ~

Dean gave his freakishly tall baby brother a hug that maybe lasted a little longer than was socially acceptable at a dive-bar, but he was still getting used to living in the same town as Sam for the first time since the kid went off to Stanford.

Sam had come out to visit as often as he could get away from his hot-shot architecture firm when Aaron got sick, and then stayed as long as he could after Aaron died, but once Dean was coping well enough to pass as a functional human being again, he and Sammy hadn’t really gotten a chance to see each other. By then, Sam had used up all his time off and then some. At first, when Sam had first started gentle-hinting and then full-on pressing, Dean had been resistant to the idea of moving across the country just to be close to his kid brother, but he was a big enough man to admit that he was in over his head looking after three teenage girls and trying to keep them all sheltered and fed on his own.

When he finally caved and agreed to move to Beaufort (not like anything was keeping him in Lebanon anymore once Aaron was gone), Sam had been over the damn moon about it. The move was still fresh for Dean and the girls, but he’d already seen Sam more in the last week than he had the six months leading up to it. It was good to be around Sam, but Dean hoped he’d made a good choice for the girls as well, not just for himself.

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean said, giving him a last thump on the back before waving to attract Ellen’s attention behind the bar.

“Well, Dean, what’ll it be tonight?” Ellen asked, not exactly smiling in greeting but still somehow managing to make Dean feel welcomed.

He was pretty impressed by Ellen in general. Dean had only been to the Roadhouse three times, but she already knew his name, that he was Sam’s (better-looking) brother, and that he preferred Jack Daniels but usually settled for beer.

“Bud’s fine, Ellen,” Dean said.

She nodded and returned a moment later with a dangerously full glass.

Dean thanked her before turning back to Sam.

“So?” Sam asked. “How did it go with yacht guy?”

Dean rolled his eyes.

“I don’t even fucking know, Sam,” he said taking a sip of his beer before continuing. “I’m putting new built-in bookshelves in the guy’s study.”

“Okay?” Sam prodded, raising an eyebrow, clearly waiting for the more he knew was coming.

“Well, at first—I don’t know, at first I thought the guy was hitting on me,” Dean admitted. “And then I realized he wasn’t, but he still seemed nice enough. But then his wife showed up and all of a sudden, the guy got all fucking icy. Turned out to be a real dick. Which is, you know, whatever. I mean, I’m used to it by now. It was just like whiplash or something.”

“Huh,” Sam said, taking a pull off whatever fancy IPA he was drinking from a bottle.

Dean glowered.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded.

He knew Sam well enough to know that a “huh” never just meant that. And he wasn’t in the mood tonight to wait for Sam to enlighten him about whatever insight he was secretly dying to share anyway.

“I was just wondering—how did you feel before the wife showed up? When you thought he was hitting on you?”

“Shit, Dr. Phil, I don’t know. The guy was hot. I just thought a little harmless flirting might be fun,” Dean said.

Sam watched him for a moment without saying anything. Long enough Dean thought maybe he was actually going to respect Dean’s privacy for a change and let it go.

But then he looked away and opened his stupid mouth again.

“He must’ve been pretty damn hot, then,” he said.

“Yeah,” Dean agreed, staring into his own beer. No harm in admitting the truth, was there. “He was.”

And then Sam fucking grinned. His whole face lit up, and he just beamed.

“Good, man. I’m glad,” he said. “That’s—that’s a good step.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean grumbled. “How’s Sarah? She working late again?”

Sam nodded.

“She pretty much never leaves the gallery before seven. But they got a couple new pieces in today, so I don’t expect her to finish up before nine,” Sam stared off at nothing, lips curving into a smile so deep it showed off his dimples, making him look like a kid again. “She always gets so exited anytime they get something good in. She’ll talk about it for days afterward, and then anytime she talks with anyone at the gallery or overhears other people talking about the piece, she gets excited all over again. It’s really adorable.”

“You two are disgusting,” Dean said, shaking his head and remembering how proud he’d been to give the best man speech at their wedding three years ago. Because yes, they might’ve been grossly in love, but Dean was also so glad Sam had sound someone who made him as happy as Sarah Blake.

“How are the girls settling in?” Sam asked, taking another sip of his beer. “Has anyone actually unpacked anything yet?”

“I have a feeling that’ll be out weekend plans,” Dean said. “Other than dinner at your place, of course. Hope you’re making something good. And I wish I knew how the girls were doing. Charlie still seems to think it’s her job to encourage me and make sure I’m ok, like I’m in danger of shattering or something, so she never says anything if she is having a problem. I had to learn about her being bullied by those queer-phobic dickbags last year from Claire. And Claire and Krissy never talk about their feelings, so there’s no real change there.”

“I wonder what that would be like,” Sam said with a smirk. “Living with someone who refused to talk about their feelings.”

“Shaddup,” Dean said, cuffing his shoulder. “Krissy answered the door with her switchblade out today.”

“Shit,” Sam winced.

“Yeah,” Dean agreed. “Turns out it was the school guidance counselor paying a visit.”

“Fuck,” Sam amended.

“Yeah.”

“Do you think—” Sam started. “I mean, do you think maybe, in the long run, the school might be a little more, I don’t know, lenient or understanding or something if they knew about the girls’ pasts?”

“It’s none of their fucking business what the girls have been through, Sam,” Dean spat. “I’m not going to lay their trauma out for a bunch of nosy, small-town gossips to spread all over the whole town. Plus, you know how much it pisses the girls off when people start in on the pity shit.”

“I know,” Sam said, weakly. “I’m sorry. I do trust you to know what’s best for them.”

Dean snorted at that, chugging the rest of his beer.

“Well, that makes one of us,” he said when he put his glass down. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, Sam. Aaron was the one who—the one who started this whole thing. He was the one with the degree in child psychology. The one who, when we looked into adopting, decided we should take in the kids who were really traumatized. Because ‘he had the tools for it, and I had the heart for it.’ And that was fine as long as he was here. And I do love the girls, hell, you know I do. But now Aaron’s fucking dead and I just keep fucking everything up and—”

Dean closed his eyes, took a deep breath. He wasn’t about to fucking lose his shit at the bar of the Roadhouse. He just wasn’t. He’d just had a long fucking day in a long fucking week at the end of a long fucking year. He was tired, was all. But tomorrow, he could shove all this shit down and be fine again.

“Dean,” Sam said, in that soft, “I don’t want to break you” voice of his that somehow just made everything a thousand times worse, because _Sam_ shouldn’t be the one who was always propping Dean up, helping Dean keep his shit together. No, Dean was supposed to do that for Sam. He was supposed to be strong enough to do that for Sam.

Dean let out a breath he tried to turn into a chuckle.

“Maybe I should be drinking something heavier,” he said.

When he turned back to Sam, his brother was still wearing that concerned face, his eyes looking all sad puppy and his forehead all creased.

“Do you—think that’s a good idea?” he asked after a beat.

“Hell no,” Dean scoffed.

Sam nodded slowly.

“Okay. Another round, then?”

Dean smiled, not even really having to force it this time while Sam signaled Ellen for another round. For just a few hours, he decided to enjoy spending time with his brother and worry about all the other shit hanging over his head tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, come say hi on [Tumblr](https://wincestielfttfwin.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, thanks to everyone who's subscribed, left kudos, or commented so far! The positive feedback is for sure encouraging.
> 
> TW for this chapter relating to the newest tag (the internalized homophobia). There's some queer-phobic thinking and language used in this chapter, so be aware of that before moving forward.

As the week progressed, Castiel began to truly loathe himself for hiring the contractor. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, he told himself. Over and over. Because it had. It just wasn’t turning out that way.

He and Hael were going to be effectively stranded in the middle of North Carolina while the engines were being prepared. Castiel knew Hael would be bored out of her mind sitting around on deck the whole time, so she’d find something to do to keep herself away as much as possible. He just hadn’t taken into account how little there was to do in a place like Beaufort. Or at least, how little there was to do of interest to someone like Hael.

So instead of her being gone the whole time, she was just _there_ , on the deck, tanning and unhappy. And Castiel didn’t even have unlimited access to his study with the contractor there—unless he wanted to sit and watch Dean at work. Watch the way his muscles bulged while he lifted wooden boards into place. Watch the way the sweat made his skin gleam like an oiled-up model. Which—no, those were unnatural thoughts. Those weren’t Castiel’s thoughts. Just temptation whispering. Castiel was a married man. He took that commitment seriously.

Even if there was that time when Dean ducked into his bedroom to ask a question when Castiel had been changing, his shirt stripped off as he reached for another one, and Dean had stood there for a moment, staring at Castiel’s chest with something like hunger. Like he was mapping out the pattern of moles across his ribs. And for the briefest moment, Castiel actually expected Dean to come in, run his hands over Castiel’s bare skin, and then lean in for a kiss. More than expected it, Castiel had _wanted_ it.

But then he remembered, remembered who he was, remembered what he was (a married, straight man), and Dean had ducked his head like _he_ was the one embarrassed and told Castiel he’d come back later to ask his question, and that had been the end of the whole thing.

The point was, he couldn’t hide himself away in his study like he usually did, so Castiel was unhappy too. And he didn’t know how to act around Dean, but somehow everything he did wound up being the wrong thing. At first, he was just nervous. The way Dean looked at him, the way he smiled at him, it made Castiel feel—off-balanced. And then, Castiel would feel Hael watching him, would feel the weight of her eyes resting on the back of his head and he felt the need to prove how little Dean meant to him. To show Hael, Dean, himself, everyone really, how much Dean didn’t affect him. How completely unruffled Castiel was.

It hadn’t taken long for Dean to become offended. And then he started getting _rude_ , which made it difficult for Castiel to interact with him for entirely different reasons. After a couple days, it seemed every word out of Dean’s mouth was barbed somehow. And Castiel couldn’t have Dean walking all over him, especially with Hael sitting right there on deck, and how she always smiled that patronizing smile at him when he didn’t stand up for himself. How she always said things like “you mustn’t let the help speak to you that way, Castiel” or “just think how it _looks_ to let your employees get away with such disrespect.” So instead, Castiel met him barb for barb.

And even though sometimes there were still moments when he’d notice Dean’s bow-legged saunter when he walked or the way he’d sing songs Castiel had never heard before terribly off-key and it made Castiel’s stomach lurch like he was on a roller-coaster going downhill, over all Castiel had convinced himself that he hated Dean Winchester.

The man was crude, unmannered, and far too cocky. All Castiel could do was hope he did a decent job with the shelves and finished quickly. Castiel would even pay him extra for it, though of course, he knew he couldn’t make that offer without looking weak. So Castiel kept his mouth shut, ground his teeth, and lived for the moment Dean Winchester announced he was done.

Then, on Friday morning when Captain Singer finally told Castiel that the engines were fixed and they could leave any time, Castiel’s first reaction was an overwhelming sense of relief. He couldn’t wait to put Beaufort behind him. But that thought was quickly followed by dread. There was no way Hael would patiently wait for the shelves to be finished. He needed Dean to finish up that day.

When Dean arrived to begin work for the day, Castiel was waiting for him on the deck, arms crossed.

“I need the job to be finished today,” he said. “We’re shoving off tonight. Will that be a problem?”

He arched his brow in a way he knew looked imperious and knew by the way Dean’s face flushed always angered him.

Sure enough, Dean’s face turned a pretty impressive shade for a moment before he got himself under control.

“No problem at all, Angel,” he said with a saucy wink.

Castiel’s stomach did the lurching thing again, leaving him momentarily light-headed. When he felt steady on his legs once more, he felt the burn of anger lapping like flames over his whole body. He hated when Dean started calling him “Angel.” Of course, Dean knew that and had made a point of using the nickname whenever possible. Castiel on the other hand made a point of never acknowledging it. That just seemed easier somehow. And at least Dean never used the name in front of Hael. Castiel truly didn’t know what he’d do then.

“Excellent,” Castiel said through his teeth, fists clenched at his sides. “Don’t let me keep you from your work.”

Dean just grinned at him, an expression that looked more threatening than friendly, and then made his way toward the study, toolbox in hand.

Castiel stood glaring after Dean, taking a few deep breaths until he could let his hands fall limp to his sides. He rolled his shoulders a couple times in an effort to banish the tension there. He didn’t know why he bothered. It never worked. Even before Dean and his taunting grins and his infuriating nicknames, Castiel’s body was a permanent knot of tension. He couldn’t even see his masseuse when he and Hael were on the yacht. He supposed he could’ve looked for someone here in Beaufort, but having Dean around had already expended all his emotional and social reserves.

Castiel sighed, another thought occurring to him.

If he and Hael really were shoving off that evening, he wouldn’t be able to talk to his parents until they reached their next port. Which meant he really should call them now.

It took a few more minutes of convincing himself of the necessity of that course of action before he actually pulled the phone out of his pocket and dialed.

It rang three times, like it always did, before his mother answered.

“Castiel,” she said. “How lovely to hear from you.”

“Naomi,” Castiel greeted, using her first name. His parents had never wanted their son to call them anything else, even when he’d been a small child. “I trust you’re well.”

“Well enough, Castiel, well enough. I had to let that new maid go the other day. The one you recommended. She was just so drab, Castiel. Truly frightful at the job. It was like she didn’t even want to be here at all.”

Castiel winced. One of the deckhands on the _Paradise_ , Alfie, had a cousin who needed a job. Alfie had been bashful about bringing it up to Castiel, but he’d promised to put in a good word with his mother back in New York, where the cousin, Hannah lived. But now it seemed Castiel had only made more trouble for Hannah and his mother,

“I’m sorry to hear that,” was all Castiel said.

“Yes,” Naomi said, pausing a moment. “I heard from Hael that you’ve been stuck on some backwater part of the deep south these past few days. She’s says it’s absolutely dreadful.”

“It hasn’t been a particularly pleasant experience,” Castiel agreed, eyes darting back towards the study where he could faintly make out the sound of Dean whistling tunelessly while he worked.

“Hael also mentioned you’d hired a carpenter or something to do some work on the yacht,” Naomi said.

Castiel took a deep breath through his nose. He should have expected that, really. He knew Hael spoke to his parents more frequently than he did. Mostly about him.

“That’s correct,” Castiel agreed, waiting to see what she had to say before volunteering any details.

“What are you having done?” she asked.

“Just adding some built-in shelves to the study,” Castiel said. I’ve been out of shelf space for some time.

Naomi laughed.

“Oh, Castiel. We’ve never understood why you’d need a study on that yacht anyway. It’s not like you have a job. And really, why do you insist on spending all your time on the _Paradise_ reading, anyway? It’s not kind of you to neglect Hael so.”

“Hael’s fine, Naomi,” Castiel said, keeping the growl out of his tone by sheer practice alone.

“Anyway,” Naomi said airily. “Hael mentioned the carpenter is a rather attractive young man.”

Castiel felt ice slide down his back, like a whole bucket of it had been upended over his head.

“Oh?” Castiel said, flinching when he noticed how strained his voice sounded, and forcing himself to get it under control before continuing. “Is he? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Hmm,” Naomi said. “By the way, dear, have you and Naomi given any more thought to that other matter?”

“What other matter?” Castiel asked, sinking into a deck chair.

It seemed this conversation was a rather crowded minefield, and he no longer felt he had the energy to navigate it. At least not standing up.

“Why children, of course!” Naomi said with another laugh. “When are you going to make Zachariah and me grandparents?”

Castiel took a moment, considering how to answer. He wasn’t sure how he felt about having children. Terrified, mostly. He couldn’t see himself being a particularly good father. Regardless, the truth was Hael was dead-set against children. Castiel didn’t really have a problem with that, but Hael was adamant that Naomi and Zachariah not know she was the one who made the unilateral decision that children were not going to be a part of their immediate future. Which always put Castiel in the awkward position of having to lie, which of course meant his parents assumed this was yet another thing that was his fault and another way he was a disappointment.

“We’re still not ready for that, Naomi,” he said, feeling a swell of relief when Hael emerged on the deck, still looking a little groggy from sleep, though her hair and make-up where flawless.

“I have to go, Naomi,” Castiel said. “Hael’s awake and I must speak with her.”

“Very well, Castiel,” Naomi said. “Be sure to call me the next time you dock somewhere. It isn’t fair I hear everything from Hael instead of my own son.”

“I understand,” Castiel said. “Give my regards to Zachariah.”

He pressed end call before waiting for the response to that, nodding at Hael.

“We should be able to leave by this evening,” he said. “Captain Singer informs me the engine is repaired, and the contractor should be finished today as well.”

“Thank God!” Hael said, easily loud enough to be heard by Dean in the study. “The sooner we get out of this red-neck cesspit, the better.”

Castiel didn’t respond. While he might have phrased it a little more delicately, he did, after all, agree with the sentiment.

~ SPN ~

When Dean was finished with the shelves, he came to fetch Castiel, who was trying to read Tolstoy on deck while Hael skyped with one of her college friends.

Castiel followed him back to the study, glad enough to have an escape from listening into Hael’s conversation, even if the distraction did come from Dean.

“All right, Cas, take a look,” Dean said, using the nickname that _didn’t_ make Castiel’s skin itch for the very first time since the first day he’d been there.

For some reason, it set off a small burst of warmth in Castiel’s chest. He decided Dean must’ve just been excited to show him the finished job.

Dean stepped aside, revealing a new section of shelving that didn’t take up nearly enough space in the wall to house all of Castiel’s books. But then, he glanced around the room and realized all his stray stacks had vanished. Interesting.

Castiel took a step closer, seeing familiar books already stacked on the shelves. Dean must have already put them away. Of course, Castiel would have to go through and reorganize them later. There was no way Dean would know Castiel’s system, but he supposed it was still kind of Dean to have made the effort. Still, though, Castiel couldn’t imagine how Dean had managed to fit all his books there. Castiel peered at the shelves and then realized—he didn’t know much about wood, granted, but he was willing to bet anything based on smell alone that was _pine_. But there was no way Dean would have been that foolish—was there?

“Dean,” Castiel said, staring at the shelves. “What—what is that?”

“Oh,” Dean said, seeming confused for a moment before brightening. “It’s a bookshelf, with a twist. I know you were concerned space was a bit of an issue, so I decided to rig something up for you. So, you’ve got all of this space, see?”

Dean reached for a small crank handle at the bottom right of the shelf.

“But then you turn this bad boy here,” he said, doing so.

Castiel blinked in surprise as the shelves parted, sliding to the side before somehow moving _backward_ , two new sections of shelf emerging, even more books tucked away there.

“And it’s pretty simple, actually,” Dean said. “Those shelves move back, and another row moves forward. Gives you double the room in the same amount of space.”

“No,” Castiel said, shaking his head, pointing now. Because yes, maybe the moveable shelves were a bit ingenious, but still Castiel _needed_ to know what materials Dean had used to make the shelf. “I meant, what is that wood?”

“Oh,” Dean said again. “Well, it’s pine. I had a hook-up and got it for a decent price. Why? What’s wrong?”

Castiel closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers, a sharp, shooting pain behind his eyes. This was a disaster! A total disaster. He’d spent days dealing with Dean taking up so much space on the yacht—so much more space than he had any right to, just with his presence. He’d been miserable for days and it was all for nothing.

“You can’t make bookshelves from pine, Dean,” Castiel explained, voice harsh. “The acidity of the wood destroys the books over time.”

“What?” Dean said. “I swear to God, I have never in my life heard that. That _cannot_ be a thing.”

“It is,” Castiel said, opening his eyes and glaring at Dean. “It is ‘a thing,’ Dean. Of course, I’m not surprised you weren’t aware. I should’ve known from the first day I saw you, you weren’t the type to do much reading.”

Dean laughed, a dark, angry sound.

“Oh, fuck, you are a piece of work,” he said. “Damn right, I’m not what you call book-smart, Angel. Never done much reaching when I had the choice. But I will tell you one thing, I’ve been working on this thing for days. Hell, you _watched_ me carry the first load of pine in. That may not be the wood you wanted, Milton, but you didn’t get specific about what you did or didn’t want. In fact, this is the first you’ve said anything about it.”

“Naturally, I assumed you wouldn’t pick the _worst possible option_ as far as the longevity of the books are concerned,” Castiel cut it.

“All right, fine,” Dean glowered. “You want it made out of something else, you name it. But I’ve already done this work, so that’s going to double my estimate.”

It was Castiel’s turn to laugh then. He didn’t think he pulled it off as well as Dean, but he was pretty sure he got the point across.

“I’m not paying for a job I’m not satisfied with,” Castiel said. “And as I already told you, we’re shoving off tonight. We’re not just going to sit around waiting for you to fix your mistake.”

“My mistake?” Dean echoed, voice loud enough Castiel imagined everyone on board could hear them now. “ _My_ mistake?”

“That’s what I said,” Castiel said. “I’ll thank you to take your things and leave now.”

Castiel turned on his heel and left the room, hearing the sound of Dean grabbing his toolbox and following after Castiel. Castiel made it out to the deck, Hael already watching the door as he emerged, clearly planning to watch the rest of the fight. Castiel cursed himself. He didn’t want to have an audience for this. But he did want Dean to _leave_.

“Listen, buddy,” Dean said, crowding up into Castiel’s space. “I’m not just going to eat it on this job. I paid for the materials. I put _days_ of work into this. I’m not asking for a hand-out here, just for you to pay me what you owe me.”

“I already told you,” Castiel repeated, taking a half-step away from Dean and finding himself crowded against the railing of the ship. “I wasn’t satisfied. I’m not paying.”

“Oh, Angel, I’ve got the feeling _nothing_ satisfies you.”

Castiel’s face burned. He was aware of Hael watching them, staring at them. He heard the leering double entendre in Dean’s words.

“How dare you,” Castiel said, a new kind of ice in his veins, not a feeling of dread, but a feeling that made him invincible. Inhuman. It made him feel like he could really hurt Dean. Hurt him before Dean said or did anything that could really cause problems for Castiel. “How dare you say things like that to me.”

He moved forward, hand stretched out before him, shoving Dean back so that Castiel had space. Then, shoving him back another few feet, just because he could. Dean let him shove, glaring at him with fire in his eyes. But he didn’t scare Castiel, not anymore.

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you look at me,” Castiel said. “This isn’t pornography, Dean. You can’t come only my ship and try to flaunt yourself like some kind of cheap whore and expect me to be interested.”

Dean’s face changed, less angry now, something almost like fear crossing his face, but only for a moment. Then he let out a sound that sounded like a snarl, moving toward Castiel, but Castiel shoved him back again, Dean, who hadn’t centered his balance, easily thrust back with the force of Castiel’s push.

“I could tell from that first day that you were some kind of _queer_ ,” Castiel said, spitting the word with all the venom he could pour into it, conjuring up memories of the way Zachariah had hurled it at the dinner table once about one of Castiel’s school friends from the soccer team. “You people make me sick, but as long as I thought you could get the job done, it wasn’t any of my business. You would think if anybody would know something about wood, it would be a gay man. But it seems you aren’t even competent at that.”

Dean tilted his head back and _cackled_. For a moment, Castiel stood stunned, sure Dean was crazy. Castiel had brought a crazy person onto the yacht, and now he was going to murder Castiel and probably Hael too in a fit of rage. But when Dean met Castiel’s eyes again, he seemed perfectly sane. And perfectly dangerous.

“You wanna talk queer, Angel?” Dean said, his voice low, more of a purr. He reached up, rubbing a hand over Castiel’s arm.

Castiel swallowed, moving back, away from him, trying not to notice the way the skin there tingled even through the fabric of Castiel’s shirt.

“You ever hear the saying ‘it takes one to know one, darling?’” Dean said.

“Shut up,” Castiel hissed. “You shut up! You don’t know anything about me.”

“Maybe not,” Dean said, voice loud and harsh again. “But I know it’s a damn shame you didn’t ask me to build you a bigger closet while I was here since it seems you’re dead-set on living in it. And you.”

Dean turned to Hael next.

“Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed. You really that deep in denial, or do you just get off on making him miserable?”

“You’re a very crude man,” Hael said, but neither her tone nor her face betrayed any emotion.

She didn’t seem surprised or even angry about the things Dean and Castiel were saying to each other. Just like she was—waiting to see how the situation would resolve itself.

“Lady, you don’t know the half of it,” Dean said, moving towards her, putting himself between Castiel and the ship railing. “But I tell you, if I were in your shoes and I saw _my_ husband checking out the ass of anyone with a dick who stepped on my boat, I wouldn’t—”

He never got the chance to finish his sentence. Castiel let out a feral growl and barreled toward him, leading with his shoulder. He collided with Dean, sending him skidding to the edge of the yacht, pressed against the railing. Then, it was the easiest thing in the world for Castiel to push on his shoulder, leaning him backward until he lost his balance, sending him tumbling over the edge and into the ocean below.

Castiel heard the splash of Dean landing in the water. Then, there was a little more splashing, before Dean’s shouting started up.

“Son of a bitch. Fuck you, Milton!” he shouted. “Fuck you for everything. If you think I’m just gonna let you stiff me and then shove me off your freaking yacht like trash, you’re wrong. You hear me?”

Castiel wanted Dean gone. He wanted him gone forever and disappeared. Wildly, he scanned the deck, noticing Dean’s toolbox. He walked over to it, where Dean had dropped it at the start of their fight. He picked it up, walked to the railing with it, hoisting it up to rest on the rail a minute so Dean could see it.

“Not my tools!” Dean shouted from the water, voice going shrill for a moment. “I’m not playing with you, Milton. Do you have any idea how expensive that shit is?”

“I don’t care,” Castiel called back, giving the handle a little shove and watching in satisfaction as the heavy box sank beneath the waves while Dean frantically swam toward it.

Dean’s ranting grew pretty incoherent at that point, just a lot of swearing being repeated over and over again. Castiel found he could tune it out now.

“Castiel,” Hael said, standing from the deck sofa for the first time.

“No,” Castiel said simply. “Not right now.”

And then he turned to go below deck. He thought maybe he’d start taking his books out of the new shelves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there was some pretty shameless ripping off of the dialogue and scenarios of the Overboard movie there. My bad, guys, but it did make this super easy to write. Also, can I say, I was so sad when I realized it made more sense for Dean to be building shelves for Cas in this AU than doing something closet-related (as in the original movie) because, man, the alternative would have opened SO many doors! So I had to get at least one in-the-closet reference in there while I could.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the newest tags. TW for anxiety and panic attacks in this chapter

Castiel stood in the corner of the bedroom, peering at Hael’s reflection in the full-length mirror mounted on his closet door. Hael was already in bed, leaning back against the cushioned headboard, a paperback book in her hand.

Castiel couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her read, but he felt nothing but grateful for it now. If here eyes were on the text of the pages opened before her, it meant they weren’t on him. He didn’t think she was actually reading—the book was an excuse to ignore him. To get back at him for the fact that he’d spent the whole day literally locked in his study. He hadn’t even risked coming out to eat, but he couldn’t very well sleep in the study, on the floor.

Not without Hael telling Naomi about it, and then it would become a Problem, and Castiel just didn’t have the energy to deal with another Problem, not after today of all days.

Of course, that didn’t make the prospect of crawling into bed next to Hael any more appealing. Even if she did choose to pretend the altercation with Dean hadn’t happened, it still hung in the air between them, heavy and foreboding as the densest fog. It felt like it was choking Castiel, crowding him, making him feel claustrophobic. Because even if Hael didn’t say anything, Castiel knew she was thinking. She was always thinking. And it was precisely when she grew quiet about it that Castiel knew he most needed to worry.

Castiel pressed his eyes shut for a moment, taking a deep breath to steady himself before he began unbuttoning his shirt, laying it over the back of a chair for one of the help to take care of in the morning. He reached into his pants pockets to remove his cell phone only to realize there was nothing there. The pocket was empty.

Castiel cast a furtive look to the nightstand on his side of the bed. The cell phone wasn’t there.

He cleared his throat. Hael turned a page of her book. Castiel forced himself to look at her instead of at his own bare feet.

“Have you seen my phone?” he asked.

“No,” Hael said, eyes on her book.

She let the silence linger for a moment, and then turned another page.

“I—I don’t seem to have it,” Castiel explained, feeling how idiot that statement was even as the words left his lips. If he was asking, of course she knew he didn’t have it. Idiot.

“Hmm,” Hael said.

Castiel wracked his brain, trying to remember the last time he remembered having seen it. He couldn’t recall having used it or noticed it since he’d called Naomi that morning. It had to still be on board somewhere. But where might he have left it?

An image from earlier pierced his mind. Himself, hurtling toward Dean. The scuffle by the railing. He must’ve lost the phone sometime during the chaos. During—during the fight.

“I—I’m going to go look for it,” Castiel said to Hael, already moving for the hall. “My phone. On—on deck.”

Hael hmmed again, and as Castiel left the room, he saw her switch the lights off, plunging the cabin into darkness. He heard the rustle of sheets as Hael settled into bed, and Castiel knew if she wasn’t asleep by the time he made it back, phone in hand, she’d pretend to be.

The problem, he realized when he made it on deck, was that without the phone, he didn’t have a flashlight app to help him look around. There was a floodlight that could illuminate the deck to a certain point, but it didn’t do much beyond throw off the worst of the darkness. While they’d been docked, the light from the marina would have been more than enough to aid Castiel in his search. Now, although he could still see the lights of Beaufort back on the coastline, they were too far away to be of any use.

They’d gotten a late start leaving that evening. To make up for it, Hael was making sure the crew kept them moving forward on course all night. Soon enough, Beaufort would be behind them. Dean would be no more than a memory Castiel tried to forget and prayed Hael would too.

Castiel shook himself, refocusing on the task at hand. He decided a slow, methodical sweep of the deck would be his best bet. He started by the doorway and worked his way along. Finally, moving the cushions of the sofa Hael had been sitting on, Castiel heard a dull thunk of something hitting the solid seat below the cushion. He pulled the cushion off and saw the dark rectangle of his phone sitting just out of arm’s reach.

Sighing, Castiel stepped up onto the seat of the built-in sofa that curved around this section of the ship’s railing, holding onto the rail for support with one hand as he bent down to reach for the phone.

At that moment, the yacht pitched on rough water, and Castiel lost his balance. He was working to right himself, grappling for the railing with both hands now, when the yacht tossed again, and Castiel lost his balance completely.

Castiel sucked in a breath of surprise as he felt himself falling over the side of the ship. He had the absurd thought of wondering if this was how it felt for Dean, when he’d taken this spill earlier that day. Before he could move beyond that question, his body hit the water. The force of it took him by surprise, and he gasped again, this time pulling in a lung full of water. He floundered to stay above the waves, choking so badly on the saltwater he couldn’t even draw enough breath to yell.

The yacht kept surging forward, and before his lungs were working properly again, Castiel got caught up in its wake, his body tossed around, his mind panicking as he realized there was no way he could make himself be heard now. The yacht was already too far ahead, and over the engines and the sound of the water, he’d missed his chance. Still buffeted by the force of the yacht’s wake, Castiel’s body bobbed, going underwater just in time to draw a nose-full of water. Then the real terror set in, and all Castiel could do was cough on the ocean water that filled his lungs and kick his way fruitlessly toward the lights of the Carolina coastline, too frightened and already floundering so badly he didn’t hold out much hope for making it ashore.

~ SPN ~

It was strange, he thought. This not knowing who he was business.

His first memory was waking up on a garbage scow. The men there had seen him floating in the water, convinced he was dead already and pulled him on board. One of the men knew CPR, and after getting all the water out of his lungs and air flowing back in them, he was fine. He was also wearing nothing but dress pants and had no clue what he’d been doing in the ocean in the middle of the night, or where he’d come from. That had been strange enough, but when the men asked his name, all he could do was frown at them.

Obviously, he knew his own name. Obviously. And it was on the tip of his tongue too, only—only he couldn’t quite get it out. And the more he tried to remember, the more confusing the whole thing became. There was no reason he shouldn’t be able to remember his own name. Only, despite knowing that, he just—couldn’t.

The men on the garbage scow looked at one another a little nervously then, and then back at him with maybe a little worry mixed in with their initial pity. They didn’t talk much to him for the rest of the trip, but when they made it ashore at a town called Beaufort, one of the men gave him a lift to the hospital and even stayed with him in the emergency room while he explained to the woman behind the desk there that he’d been found in the middle of the ocean and didn’t seem to be suffering any after-effects except that he couldn’t remember his own name or anything about himself.

It hadn’t taken too long for a pretty woman with a nice smile who told him to call her Lisa to show up and bring him to an examination room. She had him change into a hospital gown, and after a thorough exam, agreed he didn’t seem to be faring too badly after his spill into the Atlantic, though she did notice a large bump on the back of his head that bothered her.

After a little more time talking to Lisa about what he remembered (or rather didn’t remember) about himself, he’d been moved to another ward, one the orderlies who escorted him (in a wheelchair—hospital regulations, they’d explained) had to be buzzed into, passing through a locking metal grate of a door.

He’d then been brought for a “consultation” to a cramped office that smelled just as badly of hospital chemicals as the rest of the building, though it lacked that level of sanitation. A grizzled man behind a desk crowded with folders and an ancient computer monitor peered at him from behind thick glasses as the orderly allowed him to move from the wheelchair to one of the uncomfortable office chairs.

The man behind the desk nodded to the orderly, who left the room, but didn’t seem to go far, if the fact that the sound of the squeaking wheelchair paused just outside the door was any indication.

“So,” the man behind the desk said. “You’re the big Beaufort mystery for the day, I hear.”

He nodded his head uncertainly.

“I—yes, I suppose so.”

The man behind the desk made a grunting sound and peered at his computer screen, clacking away at the keyboard for a moment.

“They have you in the system as a John Doe,” he said.

He could only nod again, not sure what else to say, but when the silence stretched on long enough he became uncomfortable.

“Listen, Dr.—”

“Deveraux,” the man behind the desk said. “But just call me Frank.”

“Listen, Frank,” he said. “I know it seems strange. I mean, it seems strange to me as well. I keep thinking—I know who I am. And I know where I was before those men found me in the middle of the ocean. I _know_ it, I do, I just—I can’t seem to—I can’t seem to remember.”

He stopped, rubbing his own forehead. Thinking—the trying to remember, it made his whole body feel like it was shutting down. His head was killing him—had been ever since he woke up, no doubt thanks to the giant bruise Lisa had found. But the harder he tried to think about other things. The harder he tried to remember who he was or where he’d been yesterday, the headache got a million times worse. And then he started feeling nauseated, his stomach clenching up and threatening to expel the toast and scrambled eggs the hospital had provided him for breakfast. Beads of sweat broke out all over his skin, and his whole body started to tremble. It felt a lot like having the world’s worst flu. It felt a little like he was dying.

“Mr. Doe?” Frank said, and he had the impression it wasn’t the first time Frank had tried to get his attention. “What happened just now? I want you to describe it.”

“Headache,” he said woodenly, his right hand rubbing against his left forearm. “Maybe a migraine. I got—nauseous. Shaky.”

“I see,” Frank said, slowly sweeping his gaze over his whole body. “Mr. Doe, you seem to be suffering from post-traumatic amnesia. Whether it was brought about simply by the blow to the back of your head or whether there were extenuating psychological factors, I don’t feel confident enough to say. But the fact is, you did sustain a pretty serious head injury, and now the severe gaps in your memory make the diagnosis itself straightforward enough.”

“Amnesia?” he echoed, leaning back in his chair, eyeing Frank suspiciously. “Isn’t that rather—rare?”

“This is the first case of it I’ve seen,” Frank agreed easily enough. “Or, at least the first case as total as this. Repressed memories aren’t all that unusual. That’s a pretty common defense against trauma. I’ve even seen a dissociative fugue or two in my day. But this, well, this is something else—let me put it to you like this, is there anything from your past that you _do_ remember? Anything before the wee hours of this morning?”

“I remember—” he started.

He remembered the garbage scow. He remembered every moment since regaining consciousness on board. He remembered all the embarrassing, humiliating compilation of moments since arriving at the hospital. But no, he couldn’t remember yesterday. And he couldn’t remember anything before it either.

He tried to push for a memory. Something, anything. Just a sound or a smell—a snippet of a moment, anything. It was stupid, idiotic that he couldn’t. It was all there, in his mind. It had to be. What was the matter with him that he just couldn’t access any of it? Was he not trying hard enough? He had to try harder. He had to remember something. After all, Frank had asked him, and he was only trying to help, but all _he_ could do was sit here like a fool _not_ remembering anything.

His head was pounding now, and the nausea was back too, but there was something else this time, something worse. He couldn’t breathe all of a sudden. Something heavy was pressing up against his chest. Or no, maybe there was a hand inside of it, squeezing all his organs, his heart, his lungs. He couldn’t breathe any more. And his heart was beating so fast. Was it supposed to beat that fast?

Oh God, he really was dying, wasn’t he? He’d been hurt worse than they thought when he hit his head. He was having a stroke, or, or—

“Easy, now,” Frank’s voice cut through some of the sheer terror clouding his mind. “You’re all right, son. Just breathe with me now. Breathe in for four, ready? One-two-three-four. Excellent, and hold it for a moment, and then out for three, now. One-two-three. Well done, in again, two-three-four. Hold. And out. There you go, now.”

“What—what _was_ , that?” he asked, gasping, looking up at Frank and shakily going back to counting his breaths.

Frank looked at him steadily.

“That was your first post-amnesia panic attack, I’m guessing. You’ve got to be having about the world’s worst day—getting a diagnosis of amnesia and anxiety all in the same session.”

“I _don’t_ have anxiety!” he snarled, with a vehemence that surprised even himself.

He wilted a bit under the look Frank gave him, sinking back into his chair and trying not to tremble too badly in the wake of that—whatever it was (not a panic attack).

“If you don’t remember anything about yourself, how can you be so sure?” Frank asked.

“I—I don’t know,” he admitted. “But still—I know it’s true. I don’t have anxiety.”

“All right,” Frank drawled easily enough. “Maybe you didn’t before. But that was a panic attack, Mr. Doe. I know what those look like. You’ve just experienced a severe trauma and are still in the middle of a very stressful and disorienting situation. It’s not surprising your mind is having a rough time processing everything. You might want to try being a little patient with yourself.”

The phone on Frank’s desk buzzed, interrupting anything he might have said in response. Frank listened for a moment before saying, “All right, send her my way.”

Frank hung up and then looked at him for a moment.

“Well, Mr. Doe, since you don’t remember who you are or who might be looking for you, the local sheriff’s department sent over a deputy to get some paperwork started to help spread the word about you. Beaufort’s a small enough place. If anyone around here knows you, I’m sure they’ll come claim you soon enough.”

“Claim me?” he said, suddenly terrified.

He didn’t know what he was expecting. Not to stay here in the psych ward of the local hospital forever. But if someone did come to claim him, that would be like sending him home with a total stranger. And how could that possibly be the best thing for him?

A knock on Frank’s door sounded, and the next moment a blond woman in a uniform stepped inside.

“Hiya,” she said, grinning at both men for a moment before turning away from Frank. “So, you’re this mysterious John Doe they fished out of the water, eh?”

She didn’t wait for him to respond before holding out her hand to him.

“Deputy Donna Hanscum,” she said.

“Pleased to meet you, deputy,” he said, shaking her hand. “I’d tell you my name, but, well—”

He gestured vaguely in the direction of his head, and Deputy Hanscum laughed.

“A looker _and_ funny—don’t you worry. Someone’s bound to be looking for you already. We’ll just help them along, shall we?”

Despite the fact that the deputy’s words were meant to be kind, he found himself recoiling at them.

“I—I don’t—” he started

“Don’t worry, Mr. Doe,” Deputy Hanscum said, sobering a little. “Everything’ll work out. You’ll see. Now, first, I’d like to take a few pictures of you if I could, so they can run them in the local news, post ‘em on social media, get the word out about you. Then, I’d like to ask you a few questions about how you were found, see if there’s anything there that might give us a sense of where you came from. That sound doable?”

He swallowed around the lump in his throat.

“Yes,” he agreed with a nod. “That—that should be fine.”

And it was fine. Deputy Hanscum was very nice. It took her all of five minutes to insist he call her Donna. She was kind while she took his picture with her cell phone, kind while she took his statement made in faltering sentences as he pushed himself to remember something that might actually be _useful_.

She was even kind when, a couple hours later, someone showed up at the hospital claiming she might be his wife. Donna led him to a visiting room in the ward where the woman was supposed to come meet him for confirmation.

He knew it was irrational to be so nervous, but he just couldn’t help himself, fidgeting in an orange plastic chair at a plyboard table while he waited for a stranger to tell him she was his wife. It all—it just felt so _wrong_. He didn’t know why or what the alternative was, but he just couldn’t stop the nagging sensation in the back of his head that something bad was coming.

“It’s gonna be fine, hon, really,” Donna said, a soothing smile on her face. “If she’s not the one, someone else will be along soon enough. And if she is—well, then you’ll be on your way home soon enough, won’t you?”

“I—I don’t know!” he said, looking up at Donna. “I just—I can’t—”

And then that feeling was back, that chest-clenching, heart-pounding near-death feeling. He felt himself wheezing, bent over in his chair, hands gripping the edge of a table as he tried to remember the breathing Frank had him do earlier.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Donna soothed, standing beside him and rubbing his back while he struggled to get control of his breathing.

It didn’t take as long this time as it had in Frank’s office. Maybe he was just too worn out to get as worked up. Or maybe he was just adjusting to everything being horrible. But soon enough, he was breathing more-or-less like a person, rubbing the humiliating vestiges of tears from his eyes.

Donna pursed her lips, watching him from a moment.

“You doing ok now, hon?” she asked.

“I—yes. I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about. You’re having a hell of a day. I’m going to go see what’s taking so long, see if your maybe-wife has made it to the ward yet. You just take a minute, okay?”

He nodded, grateful, knowing she was giving him a moment alone to collect himself. He took full advantage of it, breathing slowly and intentionally, telling himself Donna was right. One way or the other, everything was going to work out. This wasn’t the end of the world.

But when he saw Donna through the glass window in the door to the room, he wondered how well he’d managed to convince himself of that. Panicked, he looked over her shoulder as she stepped back into the room, waiting for another woman to follow her. When no one else trailed in behind Donna, he turned back to focus on her face.

Sadly, she shook her head.

“I’m sorry, hon,” she said. “An orderly brought her back. She saw you through the window, but—she wasn’t the one.”

“It’s all right,” he said. “I—I understand.”

And somehow, despite the fact that everything in his entire history seemed like one fucked up discovery after the next, the fact that frightened him most about himself was the overwhelming relief he felt at those words, “she wasn’t the one.” He didn’t know what it meant, but given the day he was having, he didn’t want to think too deeply into it. He just stood and followed Donna when she told him Frank wanted to speak with him again, breathing easier than he had all day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, feel free to come make friends with be on [Tumblr](https://wincestielfttfwin.tumblr.com/)


	5. Chapter 5

Dean stepped into the house, unsurprised to see all the boxes still stacked up everywhere. He’d really meant to make headway on that today before they all went over to Sam and Sarah’s this evening, but when he woke up that morning he was still too pissed over Castiel Fucking Milton to do anything productive. So instead, he made the terrible decision of agreeing to join Sam for a run, hoping to use it as an excuse to bitch about Milton and how he’d dumped Dean’s friggen tools—his _Dad’s_ friggen tools—into the ocean.

But he’d already told Sam everything the night before, and it seemed Sam wasn’t willing to slow down enough for Dean to keep pace with him, let alone find the air to complain as they lapped Beaufort’s small park. As compensation for putting Dean through the self-flagellating experience of running when no one was chasing him, Sam did buy him a coffee, agree that Castiel Milton very well may be the worst asshole to ever walk the planet, and offer to let Dean pick up some of his tools to borrow when they came over that evening.

So Dean was at least feeling mollified if not happy when he stepped into the living room.

“Hey,” he greeted Krissy who sat on the couch, a bowl of Lucky Charms in her lap as she watched cartoons on the TV. “Where’re the others?”

“Claire’s taking a shower. Charlie’s at Sam and Sarah’s. Sarah’s paying her twenty bucks to help her clean through the house before we come over for dinner tonight,” Krissy answered, eyes still glued to the TV.

Dean joined her, collapsing onto the couch beside her.

“Gross,” Krissy said, shoving him away. “You’re sweaty and you reek. Go take a damn shower.”

“You just said Claire’s in the upstairs one. You really think the hot water in this place can handle both going at once?”

Krissy shrugged, but she didn’t insist Dean leave again.

“So,” Dean said, reaching into her bowl to grab a shamrock marshmallow only to get the back of his hand smacked with Krissy’s spoon. “Charlie will clean Sam and Sarah’s spotless place, but I can’t get anybody to unpack so much as a box here?”

Krissy raised an eyebrow at Dean, silently challenging him over how many boxes he’d unpacked so far before turning back to the TV.

“Are you deaf, Winchester? I told you Sarah is paying her. Charlie only cleans under duress or for cash.”

Dean shifted on the couch, looking away from her.

“I could—I could pay her an allowance, you know. All of you girls. I know Charlie wants money—I don’t pretend to know what for, but I’m guessing something nerdy and great. But she won’t even be fifteen for a couple more months. She shouldn’t have to be out looking for a job.”

“Gee, Ward Cleaver, an allowance, huh?” Krissy said, eying him.

“Watch it, kid—you’re dating yourself on the _Leave it to Beaver_ references. I never knew you were a child of the 50s.”

“Shut up, asshole,” Krissy said. “You spend a lot of time in crappy hotels growing up, you end up watching a lot of TV Land.”

Dean nodded his commiseration.

“But really, Dean, you don’t need to pay us an allowance. We don’t expect that. I think if it’s between the newest season of _Doctor Who_ on Blu-ray and food on the table, Charlie would rather be able to eat. And besides, it won’t hurt her to get a job. Charlie can take care of herself. When I was her age, I’d been running cons with my Dad for two years.”

“Shit, kid, you really know how to put a guy at ease about his parenting skills,” Dean said.

Krissy knocked her shoulder into Deans and rolled her eyes at him.

 “Charlie isn’t conning bored housewives out of their money or hanging out around skeevy guys in dive bars. She’s fine. That’s my whole point. She’s doing safe things in this safe little town. Today, she’s doing house work for your damn sister in law, so don’t be such a drama queen.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean said, reaching for the remote to turn the TV volume up and signal the end of the conversation was over when the sight on the screen nearly gave him a heart attack.

Whatever local station Krissy had been watching cartoons on had interrupted the programming for a local news alert. And in the upper right-hand corner of the screen was a picture of Castiel Fucking Milton.

“That’s him!” Dean shouted, cranking the volume up. “That’s the guy!”

“What guy?” Krissy demanded, but Dean shushed her, gesturing to the TV.

“—this man,” the news anchor was saying. “He’s currently being held at Vidant Beaufort hospital with amnesia, if you can believe it, Bob. Anyone with any knowledge of this man’s identity is being asked to contact the local authorities.”

“Wow, Stacy,” the other news guy was saying. “A real case of amnesia—”

“What guy?” Krissy demanded, more impatient.

“The—the fucking Milton guy! The one who threw me and my tools off his damn yacht yesterday!”

“The homophobic dickbag?” Krissy asked, sitting up straighter so fast she nearly spilled her Lucky Charms. “Holy fuck, karma’s a bitch!”

“Language,” Dean muttered. “But I know, right? I can’t—what are the odds?”

“There is a God, and she hates homophobes!” Krissy said, cackling.

Dean and Krissy fell silent, listening as the news anchors explained the situation of Castiel being found in the ocean. They included a few snippets of interviews with one of the guys on the garbage scow (garbage scow! It just kept getting better!) that had found Milton, and one with a deputy who pleaded for anyone with information on the amnesiac to step forward and help him find his family.

Krissy snorted at that.

“Not likely,” she said, as they flashed Milton’s picture on the screen again.

They looked over at the sound of Claire coming down the stairs, still toweling her hair dry.

“What’s going on?” she asked. “I heard you guys dying. Is Dean watching _Monty Python_ or something?”

“Better,” Krissy said, eyes shining with glee. “The douchebag who shoved Dean overboard yesterday is on the news. Turns out he’s in the hospital with amnesia.”

“No fucking way!’ Claire said, vaulting over the back of the couch to sandwich herself between Dean and Krissy as the news anchors kept chatting about the mystery man on screen.

“Guys!” Dean complained as Claire jostled the couch enough Krissy’s cereal bowl almost upended itself again.

“Calm down, old man,” Krissy said, putting the bowl on the coffee table and focusing on the TV.

“Although one unidentified woman did come forward less than an hour ago,” Stacy the news anchor said. “Believing she might be able to identify the mystery man, in the end, she was unable to, and his identity remains a puzzle.”

The scene on screen switched to footage outside the local hospital. Dean’s eyes widened as he saw Hael Milton walk through the doors, her large sunglasses on and her nose in the air as a woman with a microphone jogged up to her.

“Ma’am, ma’am,” the woman with the microphone said. “Is it true? Do you know the Beaufort Mystery Man?”

“No comment,” Hael said, shoving the microphone out of the way and getting into the back of a limo.

“I don’t believe it,” Dean said, shaking his head at the screen. “What the fuck?”

“What?” Claire asked. “Who was that?”

“That—was Mrs. Fucking Milton,” Dean said.

“No!” Claire said.

“She left him there?” Krissy said. “He _must_ be a real piece of work. Or she is.”

“Try both,” Dean said absently, something not sitting well with him about that whole Hael abandoning Castiel thing.

Sure, the guy was a dick and Dean planned to savor every schadenfreude moment of the situation, but still—for Hael to just leave him there. That was—that was damn cold.

“Well, maybe you should see this as a golden opportunity to get some of the money Milton owes you,” Krissy said.

“Hell, Milton doesn’t remember who _he_ is, he’s not going to remember who I am,” Dean said.

“I was thinking maybe more along the lines of blackmailing _Mrs_. Milton for it,” Krissy said. “She basically handed you dirt on local TV.”

“Please,” Claire said. “If she’s that cold, she’s already on her yacht, speeding across the Atlantic. She’s not going to be sticking around for Dean to approach with a tidy plan for blackmail.”

Dean sat, still watching the TV screen, even though it had shifted back to playing whatever cartoon Krissy had been watching before the news bulletin. Something else was running through his mind. It was crazy. Absolutely crazy. But Krissy was right—this was a golden opportunity. 24 karat. Because maybe there was some way—some glorious way this could all work out for Dean.

Hael wasn’t in the picture. No one was coming for Castiel. And like Dean himself had said— _Castiel wouldn’t remember him_. Maybe he couldn’t exactly write Dean a check for the money he owed him. But there were other ways of working off a debt. And hell, if you factored in all the karmic humiliation Milton was owed, as well as the rampant homophobia that Dean was now in a very unique position to address, this was nothing short of poetic. Poetic justice.

“Hey,” Dean said, and instantly the girls’ eyes were on him. “I have an idea—it might sound a little crazy—”

“I’m in,” Claire said, leaning toward him, smirk in place.

“—and a little, okay, a lot fucked up—”

“Well, I already love it,” Krissy said.

“But here’s what I’m thinking—Castiel Milton has no idea who he is. His wife just pissed off for Cancun or wherever rich people go to celebrate abandoning their amnesiac spouses. So—what if his _husband_ came to claim him?”

“Dean—” Claire started, a note of warning in her tone.

“Now, hear me out,” Dean said, waving a hand, getting into the idea now. “This guy not only owes me money for the job, but literal _hundreds_ of dollars for my tools. The way I see it, if we put him to work doing some of the shit around the house we don’t have the time to do—unpacking, for one thing, cleaning this frankly gross mess of a place, and doing some of the yard work I won’t have time to get around to before next Christmas—I figure he can work off his debt to me in a couple of months. And if, along the way, he learns a valuable lesson that queers are people too, more’s the better.”

Claire and Krissy glanced at one another. Krissy shrugged. Claire looked back at Dean.

“We’re in,” she said. “But this is serious, Dean. If you’re going to commit to this, you have to _commit._ This is seriously not legal, so if anyone finds out about this, we’re toast.”

“I know that, Claire. This won’t be my first time breaking the law, thanks. But you make a good point. What about Charlie? And Sam—hell, that kid is so moral he recites the damn ten commandments in his sleep. And I would know, having shared a room with him enough times.”

“Charlie won’t be a problem,” Krissy promised. “You didn’t see her when we went upstairs last night. She was _pissed_. Pissed, Dean. I’ve never seen her like that before. And Sam—he won’t like it, but he won’t want you to get into trouble either.”

Dean nodded.

“Okay,” he said. “This is—this is happening. Damn, I wish I had the time to make up a fake ID. But if we’re going to act on this, we better to it before the local news manages to spread word of this so far someone who _does_ know Milton and _isn’t_ married to him finds out. You girls—can you take care of a few things here? We need to get Charlie on board. And we’ll have to get some things for Milton—I wish I’d kept some of Adam’s things. Not like Adam’s things would fit Castiel.

“But uh, yeah, hit up the goodwill, get some stuff for him to wear. He’s about my height, but thinner. Make your best guess. And, uh, we’ll need to do something about Sam and Sarah. If I show up to dinner tonight with my long-lost husband they’ve never met before, this is gonna hit the fan real fast.”

“Relax, Dean,” Krissy said. “Claire and I can take care of things from this end.”

“Yeah, just try not to come off as too much of a creep at the hospital. You’re a white man, so you should be fine,” Claire joined in.

Dean stood up, then froze, looking back at the girls on the couch.

“You sure you’ll be okay acting along with this? It has to be convincing. I don’t want to put too much pressure on you with this.”

“Hi, name’s Krissy, con artist since age twelve, nice to meet you,” Krissy said, rolling her eyes again. “If I can make rich housewives believe the secret to battling their ennui is spending boatloads of money on fake vitamin supplements, I think I can convince a homophobic amnesiac I’m his fucked up adopted daughter.”

“Hey, don’t talk shit about yourself!” Dean said, voice getting harsh for a second.

“All right. You’re the best! This plan is gonna work. You’ll see,” Dean said, grabbing the Impala keys and starting for the door.

“Uh, Dean?” Claire said, looking at him pointedly. “Maybe you should take a quick shower first, though.”

~ SPN ~

It was a good plan, Dean told himself. A solid plan. Weird, yeah. Illegal, hell yeah. That didn’t mean it wasn’t good.

He kept hyping himself up about it throughout the process of driving to the hospital, approaching the psych ward, explaining the fictional situation to the woman working the desk there, and making it through security. By the time he was actually being led to a private visitation room where he was supposed to meet his husband (Allen Smith—he’d chosen a purposefully basic name in case anyone did want to try running background checks or anything), he’d convinced himself this was a totally brilliant plan. Dean was basically a mastermind, finding a way to get what he was owed and dole out some life lessons by making a homophobe live as a queer man for a couple months. This was a fucking fantastic plan.

The blond deputy from the news led Dean into a small room where Cas sat at a table looking a bit like a perp in an interrogation room on a TV show, if it weren’t for the hospital gown he was wearing.

An older man with glasses sat nearby, watching Dean skeptically.

Great, Dean thought. This guy was probably scandalized the person who showed up to collect the town Mystery Man was a gay guy claiming his husband. That might not go over so well in the news.

“Angel!” Dean cried as he stepped into the room, making Castiel snap his head up in obvious astonishment.

He looked at Dean without the slightest trace of recognition. There was none of the revulsion that was there by the end, but none of the strange heat from their first meeting either. It was just—calculating. Like he was trying to figure out what Dean was.

“Oh, Angel, the girls and I were worried sick when you didn’t come home last night. If it weren’t for the afternoon news, I wouldn’t have—well, thank God you’re ok. But is it true about the amnesia?”

Dean realized he might be going a bit overboard on the acting and made a note to tone it down a bit from there on out, especially if the way Castiel’s scrutiny turned to skepticism was any indication of how convincing he was.

“I—” Castiel said, then closed his mouth, swallowed, tried again. “I—I can’t be your husband.”

Dean was prepared for this. The homophobia ran deep, it seemed.

“What, Angel, come on. Do you really not remember me at all?” he walked further into the room, leaning over the table to take Cas’ hand. “Not even a spark?”

“No!” Castiel said, recoiling, pulling his hand out of Dean’s grasp. “I can’t be your husband because I’m not a homosexual.”

“Shit, no one says ‘homosexual’ anymore, man,” Dean said, then winced. People didn’t call their husbands “man” usually, did they? “—y,” he covered, adding the sound to the end. “Manny. Say gay. Or, hell, queer. We never were sure where you landed on the Kinsey scale.”

But Castiel apparently didn’t want to get involved in that particular discussion of semantics.

“Manny?” he said instead, his upper lip curling in disgust. “My name is ‘Manny?’ Did my parents decide they wanted their child to be a gas station attendent?”

“I don’t know, Angel,” Dean said, scrambling for a name, any name that could be shortened to Manny.

When he found one, it made him grin. If Castiel’s parents gave him an angel name and given all the rampant homophobia, they were most likely to be bible people, right? So that made it pretty funny.

“Your full name is Emmanuel. Emmanuel Winchester. You took my last name, you sap.”

“I see,” Cas said. “And what was my name before?”

“Allen,” Dean answered, glad he was salvaging at least part of his well-crafted original cover story. Emmanuel Allen.”

Castiel turned to the deputy.

“I swear to you, Donna. I don’t recognize this man. I know what you said about—about husbands. But I still—I can’t—this isn’t _right_!” he said, clutching the table and looking about ten seconds away from a panic attack.

“Whoa,” Dean said, taking a step back.

Yeah, part of the beauty of this plan was that it involved Cas suffering, but he didn’t quite mean to make him suffer so soon. Or so hard. The guy looked like he was about to bite the big one. Dean told himself it was just further proof of how deep Castiel’s homophobia ran. Proof of how much of an asshole the guy really was. He wasn’t sure if he bought it in that moment, seeing how fucking wrecked the guy looked, but the explanation did give him the strength to keep up the ruse.

“Angel, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Castiel got out through gritted teeth, breathing a little too evenly even while he still clutched the table like a lifeline. “ _Nothing_ is wrong with me. But _everything_ is wrong with this!”

“Mr. Winchester,” the deputy said, stepping forward. “I would like nothing more than for this man to find his home and be with the people who love him. But he’s obviously not sure he belongs with you. What sort of documentation do you have that this man is your husband?”

Dean rubbed the back of his neck, aiming for looking sheepish but not guilty.

“Well, he had his wallet on him when he—when he went missing. So, his driver’s license would’ve been in that. We just moved into a new house a couple weeks ago and are still living out of boxes. I didn’t stop to look through them for anything like the marriage license or anything when I saw Manny on the news. Just drove right here.”

He felt the deputy’s suspicion grow and swore Castiel had a look of complete relief on his face.

“But,” Dean added, fighting another grin at the reaction letting that word linger for a moment had. “If it helps at all, I can tell you, he’s got an interesting pattern of moles across his ribs. There’s four of ‘em. Kinda look like the handle of the big dipper.”

Castiel looked around the room for a moment. Then, slowly, primly, he untied his hospital gown, loosening it enough he could look down the front. When he pulled it back in place, he looked up at Dean with a pale face, but an expression of complete resignation.

Now, Dean let himself grin, opening his arms.

“C’mere, Angel!” he said.

Castiel stayed sitting, looking at Dean like he’d just shot his dog.

“The, uh, the hospital is going to need your insurance information, Mr. Winchester,” the man in glasses said, to break the ensuing awkward silence.

“Don’t have any,” Dean said, shaking his head and lowering his arms. “Send me a bill. I’ll pay by check.”

He’d already decided he’d add whatever insurance billed him to his mental tally of the labor Milton owed him.

“You’ll have to provide you address for that, Mr. Winchester,” the deputy said. “Which will be fine. I’d like to stop by in a day or two and see how Emmanuel here is settling in.”

Dean forced himself not to stiffen too much at that. Great, a cop coming and sniffing around. That was the last thing he needed, and the last thing that would help Claire or Krissy settle into the new place.

“That would be fine, Deputy,” Dean said, turning a forced smile on her. “As long as your interest is motivated by Manny’s general well-being and harassment of a gay couple.”

For a moment, the deputy looked shocked.

“Harassment?” she said. “Mr. Winchester, I can assure you, my partner and I would never discriminate against anyone based on their sexuality.”

Dean relaxed a little at that news. Maybe the deputy really was just worried about letting Castiel go home with a total stranger. He didn’t love that, but he could live with that. It would be easy to handle than having a queerphobic cop to deal with.

“Well, that would be fine then,” he said, hoping the show of confidence would curtail her desire to actually stop by and check in on them.

From there, it was only a matter of Cas changing back into his dress pants (since Dean hadn’t thought to bring a change of “Manny’s” clothes with him), Dean loaning him an outer layer of flannel, giving some of Dean’s billing information to the woman at the front desk of the psych ward, and then loading Castiel Milton into the Impala to come home as Dean’s husband.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it didn't occur to me in the planning stages how visibly similar the names Claire and Charlie are, but it definitely stood out when I was writing this chapter...
> 
> Anyway, yay, finally finished this chapter! It was fun to write everyone interacting, so I hope you all enjoy it <3

Dean kept a steady wall of chatter between himself and Castiel on the ride home. Castiel had been unimpressed by the Impala when Dean first ushered him over to it (no surprise there), and Dean hadn’t really wanted to deal with any of the guy’s opinions after that point. And how many opinions should someone with amnesia be able to have, anyway?  Dean didn’t figure that many, but somehow the tense set of Castiel’s jaw and his persistent silence on the way back to the house spoke volumes about how he felt about this situation—going home with Dean. And everything Dean said in the meantime.

Dean noticed Castiel tensing up when they drove back out of town, down a small two-lane road with no shoulder lined with trees on both sides. He chuckled.

“Yeah, you were so excited when we found this place. You were so happy to be out of town and away from the neighbors. You always were a bit of a nature buff, Manny,” he said.

The sneer on Castiel’s lips told Dean he found that hard to believe.

“Yup,” he continued. “That’s probably what you were doing at the beach so late last night. Communing with the ocean or some shit. But hey, living this far out has its own advantages too, so I’m not complaining. No neighbors to have to keep the volume down for, ya know?”

He waggled his eyebrows suggestively and blamed Charlie for the fact that he got “You Can Be as Loud as the Hell You Want” stuck in his head.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Castiel said finally, voice gruff as he stared back out the window at the passing trees.

Dean only laughed again.

“You keep telling yourself that, Manny,” he said, then lunged into a totally fictional account of “Manny’s” participation during the recent move and dropping not-so-subtle hints to them christening their new room just to watch the way Castiel squirmed in the passenger seat beside him.

“Well, here we are,” he said as he pulled up the driveway into the house.

Castiel peered out the windshield at the building, suspicion practically falling off him in waves. Dean watched him take in the peeling paint on the walls, the missing roof shingles that showed the roof had needed repairs for the last few years before the place finally sold, and the barren expanse of the front yard.

“We live here?” Castiel said, turning back to Dean. “On purpose?”

Dean grinned at him, forcing back the surge of nausea that welled up in his stomach. The last home he’d lived in had been much nicer. But with Aaron’s medical bills eating up most of what Dean had made on the sale of that house, he was lucky to be able to swing this. As it was, he’d still be paying it off for the foreseeable future.

“That’s right,” Dean said with fake enthusiasm. “In our name and everything. Now come on, let’s get you reacquainted with the place.”

Dean slid out of the Impala and waited for Cas, who lingered a few more moments before joining him. Even then, he hung back, and a few times on the way to the front door, Dean was tempted to just grab his wrist and drag him into the house.

He knew the house needed some work, but Castiel looked like he was walking before a damn firing squad. It was more than a little insulting, really. Whatever, all the more reason to feel good about putting Castiel to work getting everything settled in.

Dean opened the front door, unsurprised to see all three girls sitting in the living room, clearly waiting to get their first look at Castiel.

“Girls, look who’s back!” he boomed.

Castiel followed Dean inside, freezing at the sight of three teenage girls. His eyes went wide and he turned to Dean with sheer panic in his face.

“We have _three_ daughters?” he said. “Are any of them, you know, actually _ours_?”

“Well, we adopted them,” Dean said, putting as much warning into his tone as he could without setting the girls off. “So in that way, they’re _all_ ours.”

“But—but they’re—that one has to be almost eighteen!” Cas said, pointing to Claire.

Dean followed the line of Cas’ finger and noticed Claire’s face. If Castiel had looked overwhelmed at what had been waiting for him on the other side of the door, Claire looked—Dean wasn’t even sure what Claire looked like. Like she might cry, maybe, which would be a first since he’d known her. She was staring at Castiel like he really was her long-lost father, but also like he’d been missing for way longer than twenty-four hours. Dean really had no idea Claire was such a good actress. Or why she was committing to this so hard.

“Dad?” Claire said, voice soft.

She took a half-step closer before covering her mouth with one hand.

“I—I have to go,” she said, turning and bolting out of the room, through the kitchen, and out the back door off into the woods behind the house.

The room was painfully silent for a beat after the slam of the kitchen door.

“Huh,” Dean said to recover the situation. “I guess she was even more worried about you than I knew, Manny.”

He glanced over at Krissy and Charlie who looked just as surprised as he felt, though Krissy recovered quickly enough.

“Yeah. Way to not drown,” Krissy said, addressing Cas for the first time, her dark eyes scanning up and down his body, wearing the dress pants he’d been found in and Dean’s flannel.

“Uh, thank you?” Castiel said, wrapping his arms around his middle, shoulders slumping under her scrutiny.

“So—amnesia, huh?” Krissy said.

Castiel only nodded.

“Must be weird.”

Another nod.

“Well,” Charlie said, stepping forward, a smile on her face that looked surprisingly genuine given the circumstances. “I guess that means you’ll need to get to know us all over again. Hi, I’m Charlie Bradbury, Dean’s—and your—first adopted daughter.”

Charlie actually came over to Castiel, hand outstretched, like it was the most natural thing in the world to introduce herself to the homophobe Dean was duping into taking on the role of her second father.

“Emmanuel Winchester,” Castiel said, glancing at Dean as though to confirm he’d gotten that right. “Though—I suppose you already knew that.”

Charlie just laughed, like of course she did, shooting Dean a brief look that was even harder to parse out than Claire’s first take on this situation before moving to stand next to Krissy.

“This is Krissy,” she said, lightly putting one hand on Krissy’s arm but not letting it rest there, always careful of Krissy’s touching boundaries.

“Hey,” Krissy said, giving a half-hearted wave.

“Well, that was touching,” Dean said. “Now that Manny has been reintroduced to everyone, I’m sure he wants to change into some of his own clothes and get right into unpacking boxes, don’t you, Manny?”

Castiel flinched slightly when Dean turned to look at him, rubbing one hand over the opposite forearm.

“I—yes, I suppose so,” he said, jerking into an awkward bee-line for the stairwell.

“Uh, no, Angel,” Dean said. “Upstairs is the girls’ floor, remember? Our bedroom’s through the kitchen.”

“Oh,” Castiel said, turning and crossing the living room to peer into the kitchen. “All right.”

“Your stuff’s in the top two drawers of the dresser!” Krissy called after him.

Dean mouthed “good save” at her, and she nodded.

“Thank you,” Castiel mumbled.

He eyed the stacks of boxes still piled up around the table before skirting around them and into Dean’s bedroom, closing the door softly behind himself.

Dean let out a deep breath.

“So far he seems to be buying it,” he whispered to Krissy and Charlie. “But do either of you know what happened with Claire?”

Both shook their heads, Krissy obviously mystified. Dean then took in Charlie’s expression of unconcealed rage.

“Can I talk to you _outside_ for a minute, Dean?” she asked, arms crossed.

Shit, Dean was in trouble. Charlie never used that tone unless she was well and truly pissed. Like the time she found out Dean had forgotten to vote in the local elections back in Lebanon. Before he even had a chance to nod, Charlie was in motion. She grabbed Dean by the arm and hauled him back out the door, halfway down the front yard until they were well out of earshot of the house for conversations that didn’t involve shouting. Which Dean hoped this was going to be.

“What the _hell_ do you think you’re doing here, Dean?” Charlie in a hushed voice, face going so red it gave her hair a run for its money.

“Didn’t—didn’t Claire and Krissy explain it to you? We’re using Milton to—”

“I know what the plan is, Dean,” Charlie said. “I’m not an idiot. I mean what do you think _you’re_ doing? What makes you think any of this is okay?”

“The guy was a total dick, Charlie. He—”

“I know. I remember what he did. Vividly. And I’m not a fan of any of it. But he’s still a _human being_. You’re playing around with a real man’s real life. You’re basically using him for slave labor. And I don’t care if his wife was a total ass and left him, someday someone is going to come looking for Castiel Milton, and then we’re all going to be in trouble. And it’s going to be all your fault.”

“Charlie, I—” Dean started, but this time he didn’t even need her to interrupt. He had nothing to follow that up with.

Because, yeah, Charlie was right. Dean knew they couldn’t pull this off forever. He was just hoping they could pull it off long enough. And not bring the law down on their own heads.

Charlie let out all her frustration in a long breath.

“Look, Dean, we’re going to get through this, okay? I’ll play along and do what I can to make this work because I don’t want you to get in trouble. But this is seriously not okay, and I need you to hear that, all right?”

“Yeah,” Dean said with a nod. “I—I hear you, kiddo.”

“Good,” she said, leaning back a bit, clearly satisfied. “And I also think it’s only fair that now that you’ve made yourself responsible for Castiel, you _make yourself responsible_ for Castiel. I can tell from interacting with that guy for two minutes that he has a boatload of trauma—pun not intended. And you could’ve too if you’d get your head out of your own ass for ten seconds.”

“I—” Dean started to defend himself, then paused when he caught the unimpressed look on Charlie’s face. He sighed. “Fine, I’ll—I’ll figure something out. I guess if I’m going to make Milton pay I can at least not be a giant dick about it.”

“Oh, Dean,” Charlie said, patting him on the arm before getting a rather vicious smile. “That is very literally the least you can do.”

Charlie wheeled around and walked back to the house. Dean stood in the middle of the front yard watching her, wondering how it was that the bubbly fourteen-year-old managed to be the most intimidating person in the house. And how it was she was always right.

Charlie paused on the steps to the small front porch, turning back around toward him.

“And Dean,” she called. “Sam and Sarah say they’re still expecting us for dinner tonight. The whole family!”

She smiled her scary smile again before disappearing inside the house.

~ SPN ~

The rest of the day had been, well, _weird_ , to say the least. Castiel had emerged from the bedroom asking Dean why so many of his pants didn’t fit right. When Dean tried to shrug it off with some comment about Cas’ fluctuating weight, Castiel gestured to the dress pants he was current wearing, whose pantlegs were a good three inches too short. Dean had mumbled something about their stuff getting mixed together, which wasn’t very convincing since they were roughly the same height and told Castiel to go find some damn pants that _did_ fit him.

When he emerged that time, wearing a pair of dark kaki dress pants and a long-sleeved t-shirt, Dean put him to work unpacking the boxes in the kitchen (maybe he could find the damn toaster, at least) and told him to have a good time. Dean then turned to join Krissy who’d plopped herself back in front of the TV, but Charlie stood blocking his way.

“Don’t you think we should all work on unpacking today?” she asked him, eyes locked on his. “It’ll get done a lot faster that way.”

Dean glared at her, communicating with his eyes that this was Castiel’s _job_ , the whole reason Dean had picked him up from the hospital to begin with.

Charlie didn’t move, reminding Dean with her own pretty intense glare that Castiel was a human being and Dean was supposed to be going the least-dickish route with this whole thing. And undickish husbands didn’t tell their partner to organize the entire kitchen alone.

Dean stood his ground for a few more seconds just to remind Charlie that he was, in fact, the adult in this situation before turning back to Castiel, who was tearing the newspaper packing off from a stack of plates he’d pulled from one of the boxes.

“Fine,” Dean huffed. “I’ll unpack too. But you and Krissy could start in on the boxes in the living room.”

Charlie just nodded like it was a given and then left the room, leaving Dean in the awkward silence with Castiel.

The weirdest thing about the rest of that whole situation was that it wasn’t actually that weird. Sure, they’d worked in a lot more silence than Dean was used to. When he and Aaron had moved into their first place together, they’d put AC/DC on in the background and talked and laughed the whole time they opened boxes and fought over what stuff they should actually keep and what should be sold in a garage sale ASAP. But despite the quiet, it was—fine. Castiel was taking the job seriously, unpacking everything fragile with care. Every so often, he stopped to ask Dean where he thought something should go.

For the most part, Dean didn’t have much of an opinion, so Cas would look around the room for a moment before picking a cupboard, and all of a sudden, that was where the stockpot belonged.

They actually managed to get the whole kitchen fairly well-organized (minus the plates and things that Castiel insisted be washed because “newspaper packing isn’t sanitary, Dean”). Dean was debating moving to help the girls in the living room when he looked at the time on the microwave and decided they should get ready to head over to Sam and Sarah’s.

He and Castiel then changed into clothes that hadn’t gotten dusty and crumpled from hours spent going through boxes, still quiet, keeping their backs to one another as they stripped and dressed again.

Dean never heard Claire return, but when he and Castiel climbed into the Impala, she was in the backseat, squeezed in between Charlie and Krissy. And if her eyes looked a little red around the edges, well, Dean wasn’t going to say anything about it.

So finally, they made it to Sam and Sarah’s doorstep, two six-packs in hand, and Dean realizing just how weird his brother and sister-in-law meeting his fake husband was actually going to be.

He stood on the doorstep, fidgeting with the carton of beer in his hand, buying himself a minute to prepare for the awkward, when Charlie tossed a glance at him out of the corner of her eye, stepped forward, and opened the door.

“We’re here,” she called, giving Dean a light shove that got him moving inside.

“Hey, everyone!” Sam called appearing in the hallway, ducking out of the kitchen, wearing an honest-to-God apron. His eyes scanned the whole group and only rested a beat longer on Castiel than everybody else. “Come on in. Dinner will be a few more minutes, but Sarah will keep you company in the living room while I finish up.”

On cue, Sarah emerged from the dinning room at the end of the hallway and smiled, leading everyone through the living room doorway on the right side of the hall. Dean shuffled into the room followed by Castiel and the girls. He set his beer on the glass coffee table for later, and Castiel did the same, looking around at Sam and Sarah’s home which was much more impressive than Dean’s.

It wasn’t a mansion by any means, but Sammy clearly did all right for himself. The couches were real leather, and Sarah had decorated the house in a serious of dramatic earth tones, giving it a pretty striking style.

“You have a lovely home,” Castiel said, then stopped himself. “Or—have I said that before?”

“No, you haven’t,” Sarah said, eyes shifting to Dean briefly before settling on Castiel. “This is the first chance we’ve had to have you over since you and Dean moved into town. But I am rude to not introduce myself, considering the circumstances. I’m Sarah, Dean’s sister-in-law. I’m so sorry to hear about your amnesia. That has to be frightening.”

“It’s been—disconcerting, to say the least,” Castiel said, glancing at Dean like he was trying to decide how much complaining he could get away with.

“What do the doctors say?” Sarah asked.

Then, not being one to stand on principle, she reached for a beer, knocking the top off the bottle by angling it just right against the edge of an end-table Dean was sure cost more than all the second-hand furniture he’d bought for the new place combined. Dean just shrugged, grabbed his own beer, and opened the bottle against the table’s twin on his side of the couch.

Castiel tracked both their movements with his eyes before he started to answer Sarah’s question.

“Well, Frank—Dr. Deveraux—said it might be only temporary. He said it was difficult to tell with amnesia, but that my memories are still there. At the right moment or with the right trigger, they should all come flooding back to me.”

That was news to Dean. He hadn’t really thought much about whether or not Castiel’s amnesia would be permanent, but he guessed for his own purposes, he was lucky he wasn’t likely to be ingrained in Castiel’s brain deeply enough to trigger his memories. And then he imagined what Charlie might have to say about that thought and forced himself back to the conversation at hand.

“That’s encouraging,” Sarah said, clearly trying for enthusiasm. “With any luck you’ll be back to your old self in no time.”

She turned to Dean with a significant look as she took a pull off her beer bottle.

“I—yes,” Castiel said, glancing down at his lap and fidgeting with his hands. “I imagine that would be more convenient for everyone involved.”

“It’s not about convenience,” Charlie piped in. “We’re just worried about you, Manny. I mean, we’d be monsters if we weren’t, right Dean?”

“Uh, right,” Dean said, taking a drink and ignoring the heat he felt rising in his cheek.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Krissy drawled from where she was curled up in an overstuffed recliner across from them. “There are even worse kinds of monsters than that in the world. Like homophobic assholes who treat people like crap just because they don’t understand them. Wouldn’t you agree, Manny?”

“I—what?” Castiel asked, flinching and staring at Krissy like he didn’t understand the question.

“I’m just saying,” Krissy elaborated, smiling sweetly. “That the real monsters in the world are people who are so hateful they feel the need to harass someone just for being ‘different’ then themselves. Like that one customer of Dean’s—”

“Krissy,” Dean growled, a warning in his voice.

Krissy just waved him off and kept talking.

“Guy refused to pay him, and then when Dean tried to fight him on it, came out with a whole bunch of homophobic slurs. Guy trashed his tools and everything. I’d say that makes someone a monster, don’t you think?”

“Um, y-yes,” Castiel said, looking away again.

His hands started twitching in his lap again, like bird wings preparing for take-off.

“I—I don’t believe there ever a cause to-to be hateful to someone. And that customer shouldn’t have damaged or gotten rid of Dean’s property, whatever the situation,” he said.

“Right,” Krissy said, drawing the word out and leaning back in her chair. “Of course, some people might think you were biased on this subject. You know since you’re queer.”

Castiel flinched next to Dean.

“I—I—” he stammered, looking around the room at everyone’s faces.

“Okay,” Dean said, glaring at Krissy. “This conversation is over.”

“What?” Krissy said with a shrug. “I’m just making conversation.”

“You’re just being an asshole,” Claire spit out from the corner of the couch where she sat curled tightly in a ball. “Why don’t you just give him a break?”

Krissy opened her mouth to reply, but Sam appeared in the doorway.

“Okay,” he said, all sorts of false cheer in his voice, no way he hadn’t heard the “conversation” from the other room. Dean had to admit his timing was pretty amazing, if just a minute later than would’ve been truly convenient. “Dinner’s ready. Can I get some volunteers to help bring everything to the table?”

Claire practically bolted to her feet to help, and Sarah, though moving smoother and with less obvious enthusiasm, seemed equally happy to have an excuse to escape the tension of the living room. She kissed Sam’s check on her way past him.

Dean sighed and took another sip of beer before standing to head into the dining room.

“Well,” he muttered to himself with a glance back at Castiel and Krissy. “This dinner isn’t going to be awkward at all.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, back with an update! Thanks to everyone who's still reading.
> 
> As a heads-up, Dean continues to be not very nice this chapter. Also, it was weird writing from amnesia!Cas' POV and calling him "Emmanuel."

The dinner was awkward. Emmanuel—apparently that was his name these days. He refused to shorten it to “Manny” in his own mind as Dean and the girls did, cringing every time one of them used the name from just how _off_ it felt—still felt like he was surrounded by strangers. That alone seemed uncomfortable, but the thought that these people were supposed to be his family was just such an absurd amount of pressure, considering he looked at them all and felt—nothing.

Well, perhaps not nothing when he looked at Dean. Dean made him feel _irritated_ , mostly. But there had been moments throughout the day and the dinner when he would look over at Dean and feel an almost powerful rush of attraction. Strange, though, that feeling was always followed by shame, revulsion. Revulsion he felt for himself. It just, it felt _wrong_ somehow, thinking that way about the man who was apparently his husband. Emmanuel supposed that attraction must’ve been why he would fall for someone as annoying as Dean to begin with. But he couldn’t figure out why he felt guilty about it.

And then there were the girls. Emmanuel’s _daughters_. And how was he supposed to feel about that? These children weren’t his by blood, but Dean clearly expected him to love them. In truth, they didn’t feel like anything at all to Emmanuel. Did that make him a terrible father? Surely, even despite not remembering them, there should be some lingering sense of love or affection for his children, shouldn’t there be?

He couldn’t help worrying if—maybe—he wasn’t a good father. Maybe he hadn’t really loved the girls before he fell into the ocean, and that was why he couldn’t bring any of those feelings up now. Maybe Emmanuel Winchester wasn’t a very good man at all.

He was encouraged that Dean’s brother and sister-in-law seemed like such nice people. Sam and Sarah did most of the talking over dinner, and Emmanuel did feel himself warming up to them. They both had such warm, uncomplicated smiles. They seemed happy.

And that was what made Emmanuel realize that Dean and the girls _didn’t_ seem happy, in a way that clearly went deeper than his recently going missing and current amnesia. Once he noticed it, it was impossible not to see it in their every word, every gesture. He was part of an unhappy family, and the realization sent panic crawling up his throat even as he tried to keep a smile on his face and compliment Sam’s cooking and drink beer that tasted strange and bitter in his mouth.

After the dinner ended and they’d spent even more time talking with Sam and Sarah, when Dean decided the night was over and he stood up, ushering the girls back into the black monster of a car, Emmanuel had the strangest urge to clutch Sarah’s hand and beg her to let him stay with them, please, not to make him go back with the others.

But he controlled himself and sat in the passenger seat and let Dean chatter in a way that almost seemed nervous (though what _he_ had to be nervous about, Emmanuel couldn’t begin to guess) all the way home.

When they did make it back home (another shudder at that. They lived in a hovel, apparently. And Dean expected him to _like_ it), Dean and the girls milled about the living room for a bit, Emmanuel standing in the corner, hovering uncomfortably and uncertain how to engage with any of them, before Dean stretched his arms over his head and looked at his daughters.

“All right,” he said. “School tomorrow, ladies. Y’all should be getting your asses ready for bed.”

The oldest girl, Claire, and the dark-haired one who frightened Emmanuel (the most) grumbled at that.

“I’m going to be a senior!” Claire groaned. “I don’t still need a bed-time.”

“I don’t even think I need to go to school. Let me drop out and start working like you,” the scary one (Krissy?) said.

“Even seniors need to sleep,” Dean said to the first girl before turning to the second one. “And Krissy, you wind up like me in any way at all, and I’ll disown you.”

Krissy rolled her eyes and punched Dean in the arm.

“Yeah, yeah,” she said, heading toward the stairs.

“Don’t think you can boss me around forever,” Claire said, but she smiled a little at the end of it.

Then, to Emmanuel’s shock, she turned to him.

“Uh, good night, Manny,” she said, and then she darted up the stairs after her sister.

“Good night, Manny,” Charlie, the girl Emmanuel maybe liked the most so far, said, beaming at him and giving him a wave.

Then, she walked over to Dean, swung her arms around his neck, and pulled him down for a tight hug.

“I love you, Dean,” she said. “Even if you are an idiot.”

Dean froze for a moment, and Emmanuel couldn’t see his hands from his vantage point, but he thought maybe Dean hugged her a little tighter.

“I love you too, Red,” he said, kissing the top of her head.

She laughed and then bounded up the stairs, calling out to Claire to ask something about an article of clothing she wanted to borrow.

Which left Emmanuel alone in the living room with Dean. Dean who most likely worked in the morning. Who would want to go to bed soon himself, then. And oh—bed. Emmanuel hadn’t thought about that, but now, all of a sudden, he was terrified about the idea of sharing a bed with Dean. He barely knew this man, and just because Dean claimed to be his husband, that didn’t mean—

“So, uh,” Dean said, interrupting his train of thought. “I guess I’ll help you make up the couch for you?”

Emmanuel looked up at him then, to see Dean rubbing the back of his neck.

“The couch?” he echoed. “Do we not—sleep together, then?”

Maybe they weren’t on those terms anymore. Maybe they were practically estranged, only staying together for the girl’s sake. Maybe his whole marriage was basically a sham.

Emmanuel couldn’t decide if the overwhelming relief or the gut-churning nausea he felt at that idea was more powerful.

“No,” Dean said. “I mean, uh, yeah, _normally_ we sleep together, but, well, Charlie was right that all this has to be a lot for you to deal with, so, uh. Take your time. And in the meantime, if you feel better sleeping on the couch, that’s just fine.”

“Thank you, Dean,” Emmanuel said, feeling grateful to him for the first time all day.

Dean blushed and kept rubbing the back of his neck, and Emmanuel felt another one of those rushes of attraction for him, even though he tried to tell himself this was clearly not the time for that way of thinking.

“Right, well, I may be gone before you wake up, but I’ll leave you a list in the kitchen,” Dean said.

“A list?” Emmanuel repeated, uncomprehending.

“Yeah,” Dean said, dropping his hand back to his side, that swagger that set Emmanuel’s teeth on edge coming back into play. “I figure you won’t remember your daily routine anymore, so having a list of your usual chores might be helpful.”

“I—do chores every day?” Emmanuel said, something about that buzzing just under his skin as incredibly wrong. It didn’t seem accurate at all.

“Of course!” Dean said with a chuckle. “Why else would you have wanted to be a stay-at-home dad?”

“I—oh,” Emmanuel said.

Strange, until that moment, it hadn’t occurred to him that he might have—should have a job. But to hear he was a stay at home father to the daughters he couldn’t seem to feel anything at all for was—unsettling. Still, if Dean said so, it must’ve been a choice he made at some point in his life.

“Well, yes, I suppose a list would be. Helpful. In that case.”

Dean gave him a wink and a nod, disappeared into their bedroom for a moment, and then returned with extra bedding for Emmanuel to use to convert the couch into a bed.

“Well, goodnight, Manny,” Dean said, hovering in the doorway to the kitchen as Emmanuel struggled to figure out how to tuck a fitted sheet under couch cushions. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Good night, Dean,” Emmanuel said, and couldn’t stop himself from looking after Dean a little forlornly.

It took him another half an hour to figure out how to make a decent bed out of the couch, and when he finally laid down on it, there was a spring sticking into the small of his back, the cushions sagged in the middle, making for a strange, serpentine shape to lie on, and Emmanuel stared up at the ceiling, unable to sleep and wondering just what the hell his life had been before he lost his memories, and if maybe there was some reason he’d chosen to forget it all.

SPN

In the morning, Emmanuel woke to the sounds of teenage girls getting ready. He couldn’t imagine they were trying to be quiet, the level of noise they were making. Footsteps boomed overhead, and they practically shrieked at each other from their respective bedrooms.

“Did you steal my eyeliner?” he heard one yell, clearly as if it were directly into his ear, even though he still lay frozen on the couch.

“Why would either of us want to steal your piece of shit makeup?” another voice called back.

More thundering footsteps, and an argument broke out. Emmanuel sat and listened for a while more before he finally found the courage to get up off the couch and see if Dean were around to put a stop to the bickering.

The downstairs bedroom was empty, and there was no sign of Dean anywhere on the first floor of the house, other than the list of chores waiting for Emmanuel on the kitchen table.

He sighed. He guessed if he was a stay-at-home father, it was his responsibility to make sure the girls didn’t murder one another before school. He took the stairs for the first time, almost getting knocked down as red-haired Charlie raced past him into a room at the end of the hall he got the briefest glimpse of that told him it might be a bathroom. Two seconds later, the sound of a shower running behind the door confirmed that suspicion.

The sounds of the argument seemed to come from the bedroom nearest the stairs, where Krissy stood in a pair of bright green underwear and a T-shirt in the doorway of what he guessed was Claire’s room, as she was the one who stood inside, gesturing with a wand of mascara.

“Girls,” Emmanuel announced his presence, getting ready to follow it up with what he hoped became a very moving paternal lecture about getting along with one another somewhere between his brain and his mouth. He never got the chance to say anything more, though, because both girls turned to face him, and Krissy actually yelped and covered her underwear with her hands.

“Jesus Christ, asshole!” she shouted. “You don’t just come up here whenever you want. We could’ve been fucking naked.”

Emmanuel blanched in the face of her rage, actually tempted to take a step back. Instead, he took a deep breath and stood his ground.

“As your father,” apparently, “you shouldn’t speak to me like that.”

“I’ll talk to you however I damn well please, especially when I’m standing here in my underwear. You could be some kind of pervert, for all we know!”

Emmanuel blinked at that, confused. Shouldn’t Krissy know him well enough to know he would never hurt her or either of the others—especially like that?

“I—I don’t,” he stammered, any courage he’d gained evaporating now. “I mean, I didn’t—”

“Krissy, go back to your room” Claire said from inside her own room. “Put some damn pants on, and I’ll take care of this.”

Krissy stormed away, muttering some frankly impressive profanity under her breath and then slamming her door.

Emmanuel stood in place, staring helplessly at Claire. She moved closer to the doorway, still in pajamas, but with full make-up, her eye-lids covered in emerald green.

“Look,” she said. “You need to remember not to sneak up on Krissy. She has her reasons for being the way she is. We all do. So you need to give us space and not come up onto this floor without our permission. Dean doesn’t even ask to come into our space anymore.”

“I—I just don’t,” Emmanuel swallowed, closed his eyes, counted to ten, breathing the whole while, and tried again. “I thought I was supposed to be your father,” was what he finally said.

A small, sad smile tugged at Claire’s face at that.

“I’m almost eighteen,” she said. “Krissy’s not that much younger than me. We’re practically raised now. All you and Dean need to do is keep a roof over our heads, make sure we don’t starve, and keep other people from bothering us too much. It’s easy, really.

“What you’re not,” she continued, face getting stony all of a sudden. “Is our referee. You’re not our _father_. We’ve all had dads at one point or another, and you’re not it. Not even Dean is our dad—to anyone except maybe Charlie, because she was so little when she came to live with him and—and you. So lighten up.”

With that, Claire took another step back into the room, closing the door as she moved, leaving Emmanuel alone in the hallway. He stood staring at her door and its peeling, white paint for a while. Then he turned around and made his way back downstairs, deciding he may as well check out that list Dean left him.

SPN

The list, as it turned out, was a long one. The girls had finished getting ready and left the house, boarding the bus that stopped at the edge of the driveway, before Emmanuel managed to make himself get started on any of it.

It wasn’t necessarily that he didn’t know what any of it meant. It was more that he didn’t know how to _do_ anything in it. He’d already missed packing the girls’ lunch (though none of them had reminded him about that, so he didn’t feel like that was _just_ his fault) by the time they left. When he finally did get started (with the laundry, as it seemed the easiest task to accomplish), he loaded the washer to the very top with the girls’ and Dean’s clothes before he realized that might be overcrowding it and pulled an armload of garments back out. Then, he had to read the label on the detergent that still hadn’t been unpacked (he’d had to open five boxes to find it) before he knew how much to use in the load.

Once the laundry was spinning, he noticed Dean had asked him to “de-ice” the freezer, but he hadn’t a clue how to do that. At first, he was mystified by the point itself, because where else did ice belong if not the freezer? Opening the freezer door showed him several inches thick frost coating the space, so common sense told him Dean wanted to get rid of that. What he didn’t know was how the hell to go about doing that.

He saved that for another day, and decided he felt safer going back to unpacking boxes, even though Dean had also asked him to “seed the front yard,” whatever that meant and clean the basement, which apparently had to be accessed from the outside, but for which Emmanuel for the life of him couldn’t find the key.

So Emmanuel worked on unpacking their belongings until he was hungry enough to fix himself a sandwich for lunch. Even that process felt strange, and he found himself wondering just how much mayonnaise he should put on it and if it mattered whether the lettuce or deli meat touched the bread. The sandwich was edible, but that just reminded him about the item on the list that made him the most nervous: make dinner.

He had no idea how he was supposed to do that. He didn’t know _what_ to make, let alone _how_ to go about making anything.

He wandered around the house, at first looking for recipe-books hidden among the boxes he still hadn’t unpacked, but then, when that didn’t happen, for money, figuring he’s be better off ordering dinner anyway. He found an envelope filled with cash in the drawer of a desk littered with papers in the living room. He carried that with him to the kitchen. He didn’t have a cell phone (and when he reached automatically for one in his pocket, he felt a strange twinge of something almost-but-not-quite familiar), or Dean hadn’t thought to give his back to him, but the house still had a landline that looked to be leftover from the eighties. On a stand underneath where the phone was mounted, Emmanuel found a phone book that was dusty enough, he guessed it must have been left behind by previous tenants.

He flipped through it and found the number for a Chinese restaurant, arranging for enough food he felt confident would be enough for two men and three teenage girls to be delivered that night. Emmanuel had to look on one of the envelopes of the letters on the desk for the address to the house, and then the man he’d spoken to said they’d have to charge a larger delivery fee since that was outside their usual radius, but Emmanuel agreed, relieved to have one thing on his list of chores feel easily, or at least less-challengingly accomplished.

And then he realized he’d forgotten the laundry and raced off to throw the whole load into the dryer.

SPN

The girls got home before Dean. Krissy beat the others from the bus into the house, making a bee-line for the stairs despite Emmanuel trying to ask about her day. Her door slammed again when she made it to her room. The other two girls offered non-specific answers when he tried asking them about what he’d gathered was their first day at a new school, but Claire only stuck around for about a minute before hurrying upstairs too, and Charlie didn’t last much longer than that before she put a hand on his arm and said, “No offense, Emmanuel, but it was a long day, and I have homework. See you for dinner, though,” and then darted upstairs herself.

So he sat around and waited for Dean to come home.

The Chinese food had just been delivered, and Emmanuel was still pulling everything out of the paper bags, the girls all drawn downstairs by the scents and hovering near the kitchen, when Dean’s car finally pulled in the driveway.

Emmanuel felt some of the tension in his shoulders leave. He might not like Dean very much, but at least he wasn’t alone with the girls anymore.

“Hey, everyone,” he called from the front porch, as he opened the door and stepped inside. “How’s the new high school?”

No one answered, but Dean kept talking as he stepped deeper into the house.

“Damn, Manny, whatever you made for dinner, it smells amazing. I have to admit, I’m impress—”

The rest of the sentence died on his lips, even as Emmanuel felt a flush of pride at the compliment.

Dean stood in the doorway to the kitchen, staring at the table stacked with take-out.

The girls melted away to the walls as he stepped inside.

“What the hell is that?” he demanded, voice hard.

“Dinner?” Emmanuel said, unable to stop himself from turning it into a question, suddenly uncertain at Dean’s tone.

He didn’t understand. He’d procured food, and it should be edible. Dean had even said it smelled good. So why was Dean so angry with him?

Dean rounded on him then, rage barely held back, obvious in his face and stance.

“And where the fuck did you get the money to order so much food?” he demanded.

“I—I found it. In your desk drawer,” he said.

“You went through my desk?” Dean growled.

Emmanuel took a step back. He seemed to be making things worse somehow, and he didn’t understand it. He didn’t even understand why things had gotten bad in the first place.

“I—yes. Am I—am I not supposed to?”

“Not without _asking_ first,” Dean said. “That’s where I keep my _business_ information, for fuck’s sake. I’m an independent contractor, so I need to have someplace to keep track of everything. That money was from my business. It wasn’t supposed to be spent on dinner. Especially before I’ve made enough to buy some new tools—I can’t borrow Sam’s forever. You know, so I can keep working. At my business. So I can keep buying us all dinner.”

“I—I’m sorry,” Emmanuel said, hitting the wall with his shoulders, only then realizing he’d kept backing away. “I didn’t know.”

“Dean, you need to calm the fuck down,” one of the girls said, and Emmanuel was surprised to see help come from an unexpected quarter. Claire had spoken up for him this time, not Charlie. “You buy dinner out all the time.”

“Yeah, burgers and fries, not fucking Chinese for everyone!” Dean countered.

“And you can move enough money from your private account into your business one to cover the cost of dinner this once,” Claire continued like Dean hadn’t even interrupted her.

Dean stood for a moment. Then rubbed a hand over his face. When he lowered it, he stared at the scene, Emmanuel backed against the kitchen wall, the table laid out with Chinese food, and the girls all watching him, and then he turned around.

“I’m going out,” he said, moving through the living room at top-speed.

He opened the door again, letting the screen one swing shut on its own with a bang. A few moments later, Emmanuel heard the sound of the car engine starting and Dean driving away, wondering how he’d managed to make such a mess of everything in a single day.

**Author's Note:**

> Always happy to make new friends on [Tumblr!](https://wincestielfttfwin.tumblr.com/)


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